


A Sudden, Simple Twist of Fate

by jumblebumps



Series: Flesh and Bone [1]
Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Low Chaos (Dishonored), Low Chaos Corvo Attano, Low Chaos Daud (Dishonored), M/M, Not Beta Read, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Alternating, Parent Daud (Dishonored), Slow Burn, Torture, just a little but better safe than sorry, take care of yourselves lads
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-21
Updated: 2019-03-17
Packaged: 2019-05-26 06:29:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 76,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14994857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jumblebumps/pseuds/jumblebumps
Summary: The problem with puppet Empresses is that they eventually get their own ideas. The Lord Regent changes his plans and Daud changes his role, forcing him into an uneasy alliance with Corvo.(Or: Daud and Corvo have a custody battle over their daughter before eventually deciding to share.)





	1. In which powerful men set events in motion

**Author's Note:**

> Haha, so, I hope this isn't totally awful. I just got into this fandom and have been binge reading fanfics because I'm excited and have emotions and none of my friends have played any of these games. I needed an outlet for my overthinking of things (starting to notice a trend here...) so this happened. Let me know what you think! :D
> 
> Title is from "Deadlines and Commitments" by The Killers. We're still too early in the planning stages to see if the whole song fits, but I liked the line.

After a job, Daud always takes stock of the details. This time is no different, his eyes scanning over the group still assembled in his office.

The Empress is dead, her daughter taken. Kieron and Misha are in the infirmary being treated by Fisher for injuries incurred while fighting the Royal Protector who was most certainly _not_ supposed to be in Dunwall. Kieron was shot in the right shoulder and Misha was nearly gutted, but the physician says that they’ll live. Thomas is carefully holding an unconscious Lady Emily, ignoring Billie’s teasing jabs for being oh-so-gentle with her. Daud’s ears are still ringing with the loudspeakers’ announcements of their deeds. Only, they attribute them to that same Royal Protector who was both too good and not good enough at his job. It’s almost funny; he returns two days earlier than anticipated, the very same day an assassination attempt is planned, but his presence makes no difference in the end. Jessamine Kaldwin is just as dead as she would have been, only now Corvo Attano is home to take the fall.

Something about that isn’t sitting well with Daud. He feels like he has a knife in his gut that’s twisting and digging in further. It's distracting.

“Master Daud,” Thomas’s voice is muffled by the mask he's still wearing, “where do you want me to put her?”

Daud looks up at him, face in a reflexive scowl. With any other job, he would flatly tell him to put her in the holding cells where they always put kidnapping targets until they are collected, Thomas knows that. But this isn’t “any other job,” not really. They've just killed an empress, stolen her child. Daud is a man of few scruples, any of his previous employers could attest to that. Murder, often with special requests for a particular level of brutality, is their main source of coin. Kidnapping, ransom, and theft round out their coffers nicely with guest appearances by blackmail and intimidation to keep them safe. Daud accepts it all with relative ambivalence (coin is coin, no matter how steeped in blood it may be), but a handful of jobs are always rejected outright. Contracts explicitly targeting children are among them. If it weren’t for Burrows’ threats, Daud would have, at minimum, demanded the princess be removed from the contract.

Daud considers Thomas and the girl for longer than he can play off as nonchalant. The holding cells are metal factory vats or repurposed wolfhound kennels if the former are full. They are just fine for their typical targets, but he balks at the thought of shoving a child inside them. He can’t help but think how Lady Emily is the same age as many of his Whalers were when he began training them, the same age several still are. It’s likely the reason Thomas is holding her so carefully now.

“There are empty apartments, sir,” Galia offers. “A couple of us could stand guard?” When Daud nods, tension visibly seeps from her shoulders. She takes the unconscious princess from Thomas and heads off with a maskless Rulfio at her heels, clearly volunteering himself to be her counterpart.

The girl only cries and panics for the first hour, he’s told. After, she’s still and silent, probably in shock. Daud has the sense to stay far away, knows without asking that she can all too clearly remember his face and how he drove his sword through her mother. Galia and Rulfio take it upon themselves to ensure no one is wearing a mask when they guard her and someone--almost always one of the women--stays with her in her room as much as possible. Daud doubts that the princess appreciates the gesture from the people responsible for her situation, but it will be better for everyone if they try. It's too easy to see how this job is already grating on some of his Whalers. Rulfio stalks outside her apartment door like a wolfhound, glaring if anyone gets too close. Galia is there when the princess wakes and tries to soothe her with soft words with little success. When she comes into the dining hall to get Quinn to switch shifts with her, she murmurs something about being afraid the girl might hurt herself if she's left alone too long. Quinn nods to her older sister, bringing offerings of warm food and heavily sweetened coffee to the princess in clear hope of providing some level of comfort. Thomas appears of his own accord to switch shifts with Rulfio shortly thereafter. He is calmer, less tightly wound, but his eyes are watchful all the same and he periodically pokes his head into the room to ask if any of the girls need anything. Even his two injured men ask after her wellbeing when Daud visits them in the infirmary.

Daud himself is quiet and sits alone in his office for a long time. He'd felt something akin to dread on the roof of the water lock, he should have listened to it. He should have refused Burrows’ job outright, no matter the risks. The whole thing felt wrong from the start. Now he's killed perhaps the one noble who didn't deserve it, kidnapped and traumatized her daughter, condemned an innocent man to Coldridge, and, to top it all off, handed the city and the empire over to a man he hates.

It almost doesn't surprise him when he's pulled into the Void shortly after falling asleep. It's been years since the Outsider deigned him interesting enough to bother with, and he's almost grown comfortable with the silence. Daud sighs and wishes his cigarettes had made it in with him as he transverses across floating earth and architecture to whatever the black-eyed bastard has waiting for him at the end. That wish doubles when he comes to the first awful tableau: the Empress Jessamine Kaldwin lying dead in a pool of blood in her gazebo, a discarded letter beside her. Whatever news the Royal Protector had brought her had not been happy, Daud could tell as much, even from far away. Almost curious, he bends to pick it up only to nearly drop it as if it came alive and bit him.

_“YOU KILLED HER. YOU KILLED HER. YOU KILLED HER. YOU KILLED HER. YOU KILLED HER. YOU KILLED HER. YOU KILLED HER. YOU KILLED HER. YOU KILLED HER.”_

The taunt twists the knife-like feeling in his stomach. Guilt, he finally realizes. A novel feeling after so many years of killing.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees other human shapes and lets the letter fall back to the ground, all too eager to get away from what he's done.

It could never be that easy, not when the Outsider is pulling the strings. A small girl with short, dark brown hair and wide, terrified eyes is curled up in the corner of a bed, as far as she can get from the blonde woman sitting in a chair nearby. Galia and Emily. Galia’s body language is open and beseeching as she tries to make herself look as unassuming as possible. Her Whaler’s coat hangs off the back of her chair, making her look smaller. Her expression is torn and pained and Daud suddenly remembers that Quinn isn't all that much older than the girl they've stolen. He doesn't know what happened to the sisters’ mother, would never ask, but he is highly aware of Galia’s protectiveness of Quinn. What must she think of him for going against his policy of no contracts on children?

Daud goes to move on, pausing when he sees that the Outsider has included a view of the other side of Emily's door. Rulfio and Thomas are both there, heads together like they're trying to speak without being overheard. There is a small crackle of fury behind Rulfio’s eyes and Thomas has a similar expression to Galia, though less pained. Daud knows Rulfio has a temper and that he takes special enjoyment from fulfilling contracts taken out on those rumored to have harmed children. He volunteered for the mission to the Tower, but Daud suspects it was to ensure no harm would come to the princess. Rulfio is too loyal to question him outright, but the look in his eyes is far from comforting.

Daud finds himself wondering if any of his men will leave after this. He wouldn't blame them.

Ahead, there’s an all too familiar shift and shimmer in the air, so Daud turns away. He’s not eager to speak with _him,_ just to get this over with and return to his unsatisfying rest. The shimmer darkens to a vortexing mass of shadows as Daud approaches, slowly solidifying to bring him face to face with the Outsider.

_“Daud, my old friend, it's been a long while,”_ the god says, face an unreadable expression.

“What do you want?” Daud asks flatly. He doesn’t have the energy to deal with the Outsider’s theatrics.

_“No time for pleasantries?”_ The Outsider smirks, disappearing and reappearing at Daud’s elbow in a haze of shadow.

Daud’s eyes narrow at him and he shifts to put some space between them, hands folded behind his back to keep from clenching them at his sides. “No.”

_“Always so terse. Regardless, you’ve got my interest again.”_ Daud must bite back his reflexive sarcastic reply. _“How long has it been? Do you keep count, Daud? Of the passing years or the bodies that fall? Did you know, there are only eight like you in the world, bearing my Mark?”_ The god actually pauses for a response to this last question, black eyes bright with an almost childish curiosity.

“I did not,” Daud grunts. The Outsider’s other playthings hold no interest for him. Perhaps once he would have been curious, but that was years ago. Still, the confirmation of the small number is intriguing. He tries not to betray it in his expression.

The Outsider hums, apparently pleased. _“I'm here because you're right, you know. The Empress was different. This time, you can't just fade away into the shadows. There will be consequences. Your story is close to ending, and even you can't escape it. But what ending will you make for yourself?”_

At the mention of consequences, Daud’s thoughts return to the tableau with his Whalers, the possibility that this job will chase away some of his most trusted and skilled, the ones who still have some shred of humanity left to hold onto. “And you’re here to warn me? How magnanimous of you.”

_“Not quite.”_ The Outsider shakes his head, crossing his arms. _“I'm here to give you one last gift, Daud. It's a mystery, I know how you love those. This one starts with a name: Delilah.”_

Daud gives him the kind of glare that would have his Whalers cowering. Of course, it has no effect on the Outsider, but it’s the principle of the thing. “Who is she?”

The Outsider gives him a disconcerting smile. _“Oh, Daud. That would be cheating.”_

With that, his vision goes dark and the Void disappears. Daud wakes, alone in his room, and is unable to fall back asleep.

* * *

 

Days later, Daud takes Billie and Thomas with him when he goes to meet Burrows’ representative. He dislikes face-to-face meetings, but there are things that need to be discussed. Actual negotiations are difficult when only communicating with letters left in dead drops. This will be faster, will get the princess out of his hideout sooner and allow him to actually look into Delilah. Since his conversation with the Outsider, he’s felt the shadow of something heavy hanging above his head on fraying ropes, just waiting to drop on him. It’s probably too much to hope that feeling will lessen after this meeting, but Daud still keeps the thought cautiously in the back of his mind.

When they arrive at the vacant apartment in the Tower District, all three assassins scan the area with Void Gaze. Daud only sees the silhouette of one twitchy, anxious man in the room and nothing else of note. Billie and Thomas both catch his eye and nod, confirming that’s all they see as well.

“Do you want one of us in the room with you?” Thomas asks.

Daud considers the man he’s about to meet with. “No. Wait on the roof above the balcony.”

The masked assassins nod and follow Daud as he transverses to said balcony, landing on the roof instead of beside him. Daud’s sudden appearance makes the man waiting for him startle hard.

“Ah, Daud.” He forces a smile across his poorly hidden terror. “A pleasure, as always.”

Daud gives the servant a bored look before folding his hands behind his back and taking two long strides into the room, grey eyes even and cold. He almost sighs when Burrows’ man jumps back about a foot. “Well?”

“R-right, straight to business, then,” the man stutters, pausing to clear his throat before continuing. “My lord is amenable to your request for increased compensation, and would like to compliment you on your flexibility.” The words are clearly rehearsed, but tell Daud what he wanted to hear. Attano was not supposed to be in play, and his presence nearly spelled disaster for the mission and two of his men. Burrows had damned well better be prepared to pay him more.

“Good. I assume it will be in the usual drop?”

“Yes, sir, within the next twenty-four hours.”

“And the girl? I cannot be expected to hold her forever.”

“Of course,” he says with a short dipping bow, producing a letter from inside his coat and holding it out to Daud. He noticeably flinches when the assassin reaches for it, but relaxes when Daud steps back to break the seal and read it.

Daud has to read the short letter three times to be sure he’s not imagining its contents. His gaze snaps up, eyes narrowed dangerously at the other man. “Is this a joke?” It wasn’t funny.

“N-no, sir. I assure you my lord is completely serious.” The man takes a cautious step forward to point out the sum Burrows has written. “He is good for the full amount, provided the body is recognizable.” As if the money was the problem.

“And if I refuse?” Daud snaps.

“H-he’s more than willing to pay the original amount for just the abduction if you would prefer to simply deliver her to the Pendleton twins, but he did stress his preference for...for you, sir. The brothers are, um,” he pauses to cough, “they have expressed distaste for his initial plans.”

Daud shouldn’t care, shouldn’t ask, should take the nearly tripled payment and do as Burrows asks, but this new development is enough to turn his stomach. “And what will happen to her then?”

The servant is clearly uncomfortable with Daud’s questioning. “She… I believe my lord or the Lords Pendleton will find some other way to complete the job.” When Daud’s expression doesn’t change, he averts his eyes, pulling uncomfortably at his collar. Why Burrows insists on sending such a spineless hagfish to deal with him, Daud will never understand.

“So they’ll kill her?” He's out of patience for subtlety and euphemisms.

“Y-yes, I assume so, sir.”

Daud continues to glare for a moment longer before looking back at the letter with disgust and folding it. “Fine.” He slipped it into his coat pocket.

Burrows’ man swallows perceptibly. “If I may, what response shall I pass to my lord?”

He's clenched his fist without realizing it, and Daud forces his hand to relax before responding, though he still grits his teeth somewhat. “I will weigh the options and have the job completed by the end of the week.” He is careful not to say how the job will be completed.

“Excellent!” The servant relaxes noticeably. “I shall inform him thusly.”

With a curt nod, Daud transverses out off the balcony. A moment later, he feels the air displace from twin transversals at his back.

“He wants us to kill the girl?” Billie asks bluntly, ignoring how Thomas tenses at her words.

“Yes.”

She gives a derisive snort, a sound that is warped oddly by her vapor mask. “Never expected Burrows to have the balls for that.”

“What about the Pendletons? They're the only other option?” Thomas is good at keeping his voice even, but Daud wonders at what his expression is behind his mask.

“It would seem so.”

“Probably realized that when Parliament makes him Lord Regent it'll be easy to just take the next step and become Emperor,” Billie notes. “Smart, really. The girl would only act as a puppet for so long before she gets ideas.”

It is smart, as much as Daud hates to admit it. The Kaldwin dynasty is young, not as entrenched in the history of the Empire as the last, and the transition between them had been accepted readily enough. Burrows had clearly made his choice, but did Daud agree with it?

_“This time, you can't just fade into the shadows,”_ the Outsider had told him. _“There will be consequences.”_

Daud doesn't sleep that night. He can feel the call of the Void, singing and vibrating in his bones, trying to charm him into his bed with all the guile of courtesan. No, if the black-eyed bastard wants to talk with him, he won't make it easy. There's enough for him to consider without the Outsider’s cryptic musings adding to it, no doubt trying to influence his decision towards the most _interesting_ path. So, Daud smokes through an entire package of cigarettes and drinks an entire pot of hot then lukewarm then cold coffee as he goes through his files and notes over and over.

There was a time, once, when he might have jumped at the Outsider’s call, tried to fall asleep quickly so his spirit could travel to the Void. If that wouldn't work, he'd find a shrine. But really, if the god wanted to speak with him badly enough there was nothing to stop him from just appearing. It wasn't as if he'd never done it before.

Dawn is only a few hours away when Daud finally pushes his piles of papers away and sits back to rub his eyes. He’s read over everything a dozen times. There’s nothing in all their information on Burrows, the Pendleton family, Campbell, or any other nobles who might be involved in the conspiracy that he can use as leverage to keep the warfare Overseers from darkening their doorway. He’s reviewed what little they know about the Overseers’ Void-damned music boxes, but there’s no technique or spell or bone charm his men can use to keep those things from sealing their magic. They could find a new base, they’ve been scouting new locations since Burrows threatened them, but nothing has been promising. Even if they found a place, how long would it take to move? They’ve been entrenched in Rudshore for ages, since the seawalls broke, and the Whalers have grown beyond being able to simply pick up and leave. Could they evacuate in an emergency? Of course, but they would be leaving so many things behind, like their considerable collection of books and files (blackmail, maps, building plans, records) that they rely on so heavily to do their jobs. What if that emergency was an attack? They have novices, injured, relatives of Whalers who are too young to fight or consent to the Arcane Bond, people who would be unable to keep up with the rest of them. Some of their fighters would have to stay behind as a distraction. The Overseers would kill them.

“Fuck,” Daud hisses. He’s damned them all.

Reluctantly, he returns to the two options Burrows gave him. The Pendletons have never committed this kind of cold-blooded murder. Oh, they’ve been responsible for deaths, all right. They have provided more than a few the mechanism and means to kill, driven several to or enabled their suicide, and allowed hundreds of deaths to occur in their silver mines, but none of that required them to get their hands dirty. Daud doubts they would order a servant to kill the princess--it would be another loose end to tie up and he _highly_ doubts that even they are that stupid. Outsider only knows what method the brothers would try, but Daud imagines it would be something sloppy, simple, and painful. Best case? They smother the princess in her sleep or slip a fast-acting poison into her food. He has no desire to conjure up worst case scenarios.

If he does this--because Daud already knows he won’t ask any of his men to kill a child--at least he will be able to ensure that the girl doesn’t suffer. She wouldn’t even know what happened. Besides, that amount of coin would be enough to keep all of them well-fed and clothed for a long time. It might even be enough for them to find a way out of this Outsider-forsaken city before the plague gets any worse. Oh, Void, he’s actually considering this, isn’t he?

He’s already killed one empress, what’s another one’s blood on his blade?

The thought sends a pang of guilt through him that he still doesn’t understand. There’s no reason for him to be feeling like this. How many nobles has he killed? Enough to float a whaling ship on their blood, probably. One more shouldn’t have made a difference, he tells himself. One person cannot make such a difference.

Even as he thinks that, Daud knows it’s a lie.

A vacuum almost as large as the Void is opening in Dunwall now that the Empress and her daughter are gone. His contacts tell him that Burrows will be officially declared Lord Regent in the morning, and as soon as he is he will implement martial law as he had been advocating for since the plague broke out. He’s already drawing up plans for other extreme measures: Walls of Light installed between streets; setting up arc pylons, curfews, and watchtowers to limit movement around Dunwall; even allowing the City Watch to openly hunt Weepers. The most Empress Jessamine had allowed had been the establishment of a handful of quarantine clinics and the use of mass graves.

The city and the empire are about to go to shit because one person was killed. Because he killed her. Everything that happens from here on out will be his fault.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Exposition yay???


	2. In which Daud makes a choice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternative chapter title: In which Daud just wants to sleep, dammit

Outside, the sky is beginning to lighten with the first stretches of dawn. It isn’t long before Billie transverses into his room, wearing her red coat but not her mask.

“Hey,” she says, leaning her hip up against his desk when he doesn’t look up or move. “You still alive, old man?”

Daud waves a hand at her before bridging his fingers back together to rest his forehead against them. “Probably.”

She snorts and passes a mug of--oh by the Void, it’s warm--coffee to him. “Drink up, we’ve got a meeting in the infirmary in ten.”

He raises an eyebrow at her as he takes a drink. The pot he’d been nursing was cold as the Wrenhaven by the time he finished it, this tastes like heaven. “I don’t remember calling a meeting.”

“You didn’t.” Billie gives him a sideways glance and shrugs, clearly not amused with whatever is happening. It’s a surprise that she doesn’t take the opportunity to tease him for losing his memory in his old age, or something like that. “The captains want it. Thomas told Galia and Rulf about Burrows’s new conditions, and Rin wanted to know why his brother was upset.” She holds up a hand to start counting down on her fingers. “Galia told Kieron and Misha, and I’m not sure how Tynan found out.”

“Any particular reason why they decided to meet in the infirmary?”

“Fisher won’t let Kieron and Misha out,” she says matter-of-factly, “and Misha was particularly vocal about not being left out, and I quote, ‘because of a scratch.’”

Well, fair enough.

When they leave for the infirmary, Daud brings a handful of files with him as well as Burrows’ latest letter. He and Billie arrive to find Kieron and Misha propped up in their sickbeds, looking far better than the last time Daud saw them, even if Misha is still a few shades paler than he normally is. Thomas sits on a bed to Kieron’s right with Galia and a clearly agitated Rulfio. Rinaldo is standing at the foot of Kieron’s bed, close enough to Rulfio to smack him if necessary. Tynan is to the left of Misha’s bed, leaning against the wall with his arms folded. Fisher is watching them take over his infirmary from his desk chair across the room, his expression betraying none of what he’s thinking. Daud stands at the foot of Misha’s bed and Billie takes her customary spot at his right.

“Morning,” Daud grunts. He can tell by the way Galia is looking at him that he looks about as awake as he feels, though the coffee is helping. “You all wanted to speak with me?”

“Thomas told us what Burrows’ man said,” Rulfio begins. His tone is flat, but not angry. “That he wants the princess dead, and either we can do it or he’ll get the Pendletwat twins to.”

“That’s right.” What else is he supposed to say to that? “And?”

“And we want to know what the plan is,” Misha says. His Tyvian accent is more obvious than normal, he must be tired.

“You can’t seriously be considering going through with it,” Rulfio continues.

“Rulf…” Rinaldo cautions.

“What?!” He’s indignant, ruffling like an irritated bird. “She’s a kid!”

Rulfio’s tone is bordering on insubordination, but Daud lets it slide. He doesn’t want to have this conversation. What he  _ should _ be doing is scowling at his captains and telling them this isn't up for debate, not encouraging it. “If Burrows wants her dead, she’s going to die whether or not we’re the ones who do it,” he says instead. “If it’s us, at least we’ll be the ones who get paid. And we can make sure it’s quick.” He only adds the last part as an afterthought when Galia looks at him in thinly veiled horror and Rulfio’s mouth curls in a silent snarl.

“Sir,” Galia opens her mouth before Rulfio can fire off his, “what if we refuse him?”

“Then Burrows sends Overseers armed with music boxes to kill us all,” Daud says simply.

“Can’t we fight them?”

“You ever run into a music box, Gal?” Tynan drawls in his Morley brogue. “There’s no fightin’ those things.”

Galia frowns. “I have. It turned off well enough when I shot the Overseer.”

“What about a whole battalion at once?” challenges Billie . “There’s no way you can shoot all of them before you collapse.”

“What if we ran, then? Our sentries would see them long before they get here. We could retreat and regroup.”

“How would we get the kids out?” Tynan says. “Think little Quinn’ll be able to outrun those fanatics?”

_ That _ is a low blow. Galia’s face flashes with anger and the scar-like shadow of the Outsider’s Mark on her left hand glows dully. Kieron and Thomas both put hands on her shoulders to stay her, Thomas murmuring in her ear to get her to calm down.

Daud sighs audibly, rubbing his temples between his thumb and middle finger. He’d already gone through all this last night, hearing it get rehashed between his captains and lieutenant is not making his resolve any more solid. If anything, it's making him falter.  He shouldn't be encouraging this. “That’s enough.” He looks around the room, making eye contact with everyone briefly and carefully chooses his next words. “Arguing isn't going to help anything. Unless anyone has an  _ actual suggestion, _ I would like to go get more coffee and breakfast.” He isn't expecting anyone to offer anything up.

The Whalers are all silent for a moment before Galia speaks, “I think we should keep her.”

Billie and Tynan look at her like she’s lost her mind. Rulfio nods in solemn agreement while Thomas, Kieron, Rinaldo, and Misha look anywhere but at Daud or Galia.  _ Especially _ not at Daud. It keeps them from noticing his surprised expression before he’s able to reign it in.

If Daud were being completely honest (there’s a joke in there somewhere he’s surprised Billie hasn’t used before), he’d thought of that, but instantly scrapped the idea. There were too many variables, too much that could go wrong, and no way to guarantee any of the other Whalers would agree to help. They were no strangers to risking their lives, but only for personal gain. This was far too close to altruism to expect from mercenary assassins.

“She ain’t a wolfhound,” Tynan says.

“Clearly. But she can stay with us. She’d be safe here.”

“What about the rest of us when the Overseers come?” Kieron asks quietly, like the suggestion pains him. He clearly agrees with Galia on some level.

“We can come up with an evacuation plan,” she says. “We’ll practice, leave nothing to chance.”

“Set up more traps,” Rulfio adds. “Try and kill some of them before they get too close. It’ll slow them down.”

“...Maybe we could move the little ones to a more secure building,” says Misha. “One close by, but out of range of those boxes. Only those who can transverse away will stay in the Chamber of Commerce.”

“It would also help if we set up barricades. That way, we can make sure they can only attack us from one direction,” Thomas suggests.

“This is ridiculous.” Billie’s tone is flat, unamused, and her body language is closed with her arms crossed firmly. “What would we even  _ do _ with her?”

Her question makes everyone go quiet. Clearly coming up with short term plans is no problem, but they’re at a loss for anything past the potential (likely, rather) Overseer attack.

“Well…” Rinaldo is very careful to avoid making eye contact with anyone. “Could… Couldn’t we just figure that out later?”

“If you’re gonna advocate for somethin’ stupid, you need to have some kinda endgame,” points out Tynan. Billie nods in agreement.

“Okay.” Galia nods firmly, scooting a bit closer to the edge of the bed she’s sitting on. “The way I see it, we have...two or three options. One,” she holds up a finger, “she joins the Whalers.” Even Rulfio looks at her like she’s crazy now and there’s a collective exclamation of shock from the assembled group that sounds something like a squawk before Galia starts shouting to try and regain control.

“Enough,” Daud says, only raising his voice a little to be heard. The chatter stops and all the captains--plus Billie and Fisher--turn to face him. “Let her finish.”

“Boss, you can’t really--” Billie shuts up when Daud shoots a glare at her and just looks away.

“Thank...you?” Galia says slowly. She shifts a little and clears her throat before continuing. “Obviously there are some problems with that idea, but it can be a last resort. Two,” she holds up a second finger now, “we give her to someone who will actually keep her safe, maybe even help her retake the throne and get rid of Burrows for us. There  _ has _ to be someone who’d benefit from restoring the Kaldwin line. Three,” she holds up a third finger and scrunches down like she's bracing against an incoming blow, “...we could try and put her back on the throne ourselves.”

“Absolutely not,” Daud says before another shouting match can begin at Galia’s final suggestion. His tone leaves no room for argument and he can see Billie practically sigh with relief out of the corner of his eye. They’re  _ assassins _ , for Void’s sakes, heretic ones at that. Staging a coup against Burrows would bring a degree of publicity that would absolutely destroy them. Even if the Overseers didn’t kill them as soon as they stepped out from the shadows to put a fucking ten-year-old on the throne, Parliament would have them all arrested, put on trial for nearly every assassination and unsolved murder from at least the past decade,  _ then _ have them killed. If they tried to keep their involvement a secret, the young Empress would find herself essentially abandoned on a throne with little to no support behind her. It would be worse than leaving an unwanted baby on a doorstep in the Month of Ice. Killing her now would be kinder.

“...I’ll admit that’s the worst idea,” Galia acquieses quietly.

Tynan snorts at that. “No shit.”

“What about the second one?” says Rinaldo, clearly trying to be helpful. “That doesn’t sound too bad. We can just…” 

“Keep an ear out for any groups trying to restore the monarchy?” Rulfio finishes.

“Yeah, that.”

“That  _ still _ makes us involved,” Billie says with a huff.

“We are already involved,” Misha points out. “Or have you forgotten why Kieron and I are keeping Fisher company?”

The physician barks out a laugh at that. It’s the first real indication he’s following their discussion, but it wasn’t as though anyone expected him not to be.

“Bils, there’s no real clean way out at this point,” Thomas says gently. “It… It’s like handing her off to the Pendletons, but this way she doesn’t get killed.”

“How will we know the people we hand her off to won’t come after us?” Billie questions.

“We leave Dunwall.” Everyone looks at Daud when he says this. A few of the Whalers are blinking slowly in confusion. Daud weighs the idea in his head for a moment before nodding. “It would be best if we left after this is all over, anyway.” If he left, he amends silently. The Outsider said there would be consequences, that his story was ending. Perhaps it's too optimistic to hope he was only referring to Daud’s time as the Knife of Dunwall.

The captains exchange looks with one another. Many of the Whalers were born and raised in Dunwall, or had at least spent most of their lives in the city. None really had much love for it, but the thought of leaving would still scare them. It was change. No one likes change.

“So that’s it, then?” Billie sighs. “Is that what you’re going to do?” She turns to scrutinize Daud. He feels as though she’s watching him for something.

Daud thinks for a minute and nods. Tynan and Billie are the only ones in the room who sound opposed to this. That’s far more support than he would have counted on. Maybe this could actually work. “Yes.”

His second in command gives another sigh and throws her hands up in a dramatic “do what you will” motion before transversing away in a flutter of ash. Daud doesn’t think anything of it, too physically and mentally exhausted to expend more energy to decipher Billie’s mood. And...he’s also out of coffee.

* * *

Galia wants him to talk to the girl.

She stays behind after that afternoon's meeting to discuss what defensive preparations would be needed if they are going to actually go through with this Void-forsaken plan. As the other captains leave to check in with their squads, she loiters in Daud’s office, seemingly oblivious to the looks Billie has been giving her until the lieutenant finally addresses her.

“You need something, Fleet?”

“I wanted to talk to Daud.” Galia gives him a pointed look as he considers the map of the Flooded District they'd all spent the better part of an hour marking up. “If that's all right, sir.”

“What is it?” He doesn't bother turning away from the paper, but Galia isn't fazed.

“What are you going to tell the princess?”

In the six years he's known her, Galia has never been anything but direct. On more than one occasion, he’s heard the others describe her as being “like a crossbow bolt to the face,” but only when the woman herself isn’t around to hear them. Usually, Daud appreciates her forthright, no-nonsense manner. It's part of why she's a captain and instructor for the novices. Now, however, Daud  _ almost _ finds himself wishing she were a  _ slightly _ more subtle person. He's still too tired for this, and the way her question feels like another knife in his gut is certainly not helping.

He must have faltered because Billie gives him a strange look that might be mistaken for concern on anyone else. She probably would have had some jab for him had he not spoken before she could open her mouth.

“Am I supposed to?” he asks, raising an eyebrow and doing his best to appear casual and unaffected. Have any of his men noticed just how much this contract is weighing on him? He wants to believe he’s not so transparent as that.

His act appears to work because Galia screws her mouth into a grimace. “You should.”

“If you’re asking for permission to tell her we aren’t going to be handing her to Burrows’ camp, then you have it.” It would calm her down, make her less likely to do something potentially harmful to herself or his Whalers. He turns his attention to straightening a stack of files, assuming the conversation to be over.

“I mean you specifically should be the one to talk to her. You’re the boss.” When Daud looks back at Galia, her thoughts are written so plainly on her face that he can practically hear her adding that she’s afraid the princess won’t believe her.

He scowls and redoubles his attention on the files spread out across his office from where they were consulted during the meeting. “I highly doubt she wants anything to do with me,” he mumbles.

“Well, then she’ll have to get over it, she’s going to have to come out of her room sooner or later.”

In another life, Galia could have been a barrister. When it becomes clear that she isn’t going to let the topic drop without a fight, Billie transverses out of Daud’s office, hopefully to begin her task of looking into the Outsider’s Delilah. Galia continues pressing her case, barely even flinching in the face of Daud’s scowls. She has a backbone to rival Billie’s. Again, that’s normally a good thing, but right now it just serves to remind Daud of how tired he is.

Soon, she has him silently agreeing with her logic.

Evening finds Daud stalking down the hall where several Whalers have set up apartments in old offices. The girl’s is the only one with a guard on it. Rinaldo gives him an easy smile and one of the Whalers’ characteristic salutes when he approaches.

“Hey, boss. Galia wore you down, huh?” When Daud glares at him, he looks away, sheepish. “Sorry, she… She mentioned going to talk to you, earlier.”

“Is she awake?” Daud nods his head towards the door.

“Yeah, I think.” The captain steps aside and Daud goes to open the door, pausing with his hand on the handle. After a moment of debate, he raises a hand to knock lightly.

On the other side of the door there’s there’s a sound like the rustling of a stack of papers, silence, then a small voice says, “...Yes?”

“Can I come in?” This is already going to be an awful experience, he’d rather not make it worse for either of them by barging into the room.

The silence stretches out longer this time. For a second, Daud wonders if the princess is trying to find a hiding place, then he hears Quinn’s clear voice: “Yes, sir.”

He takes a breath before opening the door. Quinn is standing beside what was once a very fancy, expensive office desk that is now scratched and water damaged with crayons strewn across it. The little princess is in the chair with Quinn over her shoulder, holding a stack of papers to her chest and staring at Daud with wide, terrified eyes. When he enters, she shrinks back into Quinn, despite the Whaler being less than a foot taller than she is. 

Quinn is smiling brightly, looking very much like a younger, sunnier version of Galia. “Good evening, sir,” she says as if there isn’t anything at all wrong with this situation. Does she not…? No, she has to know that Galia asked him to come by. Not even Quinn could be so chipper if she didn't.

Daud gives her a nod before looking back at Lady Emily, who quickly averts her eyes. He can’t help but notice someone got her a change of clothes--a shirt and trousers that are a few sizes too large. When he doesn’t look away immediately himself, the princess reaches a hand back to grasp for Quinn, who takes it immediately and gives a reassuring squeeze.

“Do you know who I am?” Daud finally asks. He tries to keep his voice soft, but it comes out a low rumble.

The princess jumps at the sound, but nods, still not looking at him. “You...you killed Mother,” she murmurs.

“I did.” There’s no point in lying or sugar-coating things, so he doesn’t. She’s plenty old enough to see and understand more than most adults would be willing to acknowledge she does.

He can see her throat bob as she swallows, and her eyes glisten like she’s about to start crying. Daud braces himself. “...Why?”

He squats down so he can be closer to eye-level with her. He’s well aware of how intimidating he is, and he would rather not have her start crying. Hopefully, this will help. “Because someone paid me to.”

“Is that why I’m here?”

“Yes.”

“Who was it?”

“Hiram Burrows.”

She makes a face somewhere between rage and disgust. “...I never liked him.”

He can see why.

“What… Where’s Corvo?”

Daud’s eyebrows raise a little. That wasn’t a question he’d been anticipating, though he supposes he shouldn’t be surprised. There have been plenty of rumors about who her father was over the years, and the Lord Protector has always been the most popular candidate. “He is in Coldridge prison. Awaiting execution.” He almost doesn’t add the last part, and his chest clenches at how the girl’s face crumples.

“Th-they can’t…” She hiccups and drops the papers on the desk to hug herself. Quinn pulls her into a tight hug and Daud glances over at the desk. The papers appear to all be crayon drawings. Someone must have been trying to calm or distract her. Or both.

Quinn looks up at Daud with an anxious expression. “...What about what Galia mentioned?” she asks cryptically, probably trying to steer him away from the painful subject matter.

“Burrows hired my men and I to kill your mother--” Emily chokes out a sob at the reminder. “--and kidnap you. When he originally approached us, he said we would hold you for a few days before giving you to some of his allies. Yesterday, he changed his mind, and decided he would rather us kill you instead.” She jolts and stares at him in renewed fear. He shouldn’t have led with that. “But I would rather not.”

He pauses to let Lady Emily collect herself. Quinn is gently hushing her and rubbing her arms. When she no longer seems one wrong word away from panicking, Daud continues. “The only reason I agreed to take his contract was he threatened my Whalers. Otherwise, I would have left you alone. This...changes things, and several of my men have expressed their displeasure at the thought of harming you.” He pauses, considering how he wants to word this. “Instead, we are going to look for someone who will keep you safe. We’ll take you to them, and they’ll help you.”

“Who?” Her voice is small and shaky, but there’s a tiny spark of hope in her eyes.

“I don’t know yet. We have to look.”

She sniffles. “What about Corvo?”

“...What about him?”

“He’d keep me safe.” She wipes her eyes on the long sleeve of her borrowed shirt. “You...you could leave me with him.”

“Corvo’s in Coldridge, Emily,” Quinn murmurs gently.

“You could rescue him!” The princess’s eyes are wide and bright and forceful. “You could do it, y-you broke into the Tower! It’ll be easy!”

“No one escapes Coldridge.” He uses the tone he uses to tell the Whalers that a topic is no longer up for discussion.

Her face crumples again and she threatens to resume crying. “Please… I… I don’t know anyone else…”

Daud purses his lips together. He doesn’t need her to  _ trust _ him, persey, but it would make life easier for everyone. Even so, it's a risk sending anyone into Coldridge prison, even someone who can transverse. Besides, Attano would likely kill any Whaler he saw, rescuer or not. Daud has no doubt that his own name would be at the top of his revenge list, not that he could blame him.

“No.”

“But it's your  _ fault!”  _ Emily stiffens as soon as she's said it and covers her mouth with a hand as if she hadn't meant to say that out loud. 

Daud hadn't said  _ why  _ Attano was on death row, but if nothing else this just proves he was right to be upfront and honest with the girl. She'd have seen right through him. He can't prove that she hasn't already; her accusation, all pain and fury and childish vehemence, makes his chest so tight he can barely breathe. He hardly registers the way Quinn is staring at him with quiet anxiety that doesn't quite belong on her face. Is she afraid he'll lash out at the princess, or that he'll crack his façade?

It takes too long for him to rasp out his response. “...That's true.” He doesn't look at either of the girls, focusing instead on a knot in the floorboards between them. “It is my fault.” The silence that follows drags on long enough for Rinaldo to appear in the open doorway behind Daud. He must make eye contact with Quinn because Daud catches her making a quick gesture out of the corner of his eye before he hears Rinaldo step back into the hall.

He's ripped this girl's life away from her. She watched him murder her mother and just learned he framed the man who is most likely her father, functionally making her an orphan. A small, traitorous part of himself whispers that he owes her to at least  _ try _ to return what he can to her. The Empress is dead, but there's still some small sliver of hope for Attano.

A very, very small sliver.

“...I can try,” his voice is so low he can't be entirely sure he spoke the words aloud, “but I make no promises.” He stands, his knees protesting mildly, but still doesn't look at the princess. “Until we find, or rescue, a guardian for you, you will be cared for. You are allowed to leave your room if you wish, but it would be unwise to go far without an escort. We are in the Flooded District and river krusts are everywhere. That being said, if someone tells you to stop because something is dangerous or that you need to run, I expect you to listen. The idea is to keep you alive, Highness, and I would appreciate your cooperation. Am I clear?”

“Yes, sir,” she murmurs. He can hear her hesitate before she adds, “Thank you.”

Her thanks is enough to startle Daud and he looks back at her. Her expression is unguarded and earnest, but still nervous. It’s far more than he thought to expect, and he honestly isn’t sure how to respond. He settles for a small nod. 

“Quinn, you’re relieved from duties for a few days to help Lady Emily settle in.” Quinn is only, what? Fifteen, maybe sixteen? He’s honestly not sure, she’s so small. It was only recently that he offered her the Arcane Bond, primarily because she's one of his best pickpockets and thieves, despite her age. However, none of her duties are particularly vital. Giving her some time off won’t harm anything. Besides, the princess seems comfortable with her.

The way Quinn’s face lights up and Emily’s relaxes tells him he chose correctly. “Thank you, sir!” Quinn says sunnily. “I’ll keep her safe, don’t worry!” She loops her arms loosely around the younger girl’s shoulders and pulls her into a relaxed hug.

“See that you do. Good night.” With that, Daud turns and leaves the room, shutting the door behind him. He’d hoped to feel more relaxed after getting that over with, but if anything, he’s more on edge. Rinaldo gives him a thumbs-up and a smile that doesn’t fade when Daud rolls his eyes and stalks off to his room. He’s ready for sleep.

The blue of the Void and the low drone of whalesong greet him almost immediately after he closes his eyes. Daud is unable to repress a groan, gloved hand going up to rub his temples. He clearly became too used to the Outsider’s disinterest. It's less than thrilling to have regained his attention, and he never sleeps well after being called to the Void. 

Fuck that fucking bastard, he did this on purpose.

_ “Oh, Daud, you fascinate me,”  _ the Outsider says, and Daud turns to find him floating lazily a few inches above a half collapsed brick wall, stretched as though lying across it.

Daud hadn't sensed him appear; the lack of solid sleep must be getting to him. Void, he hates that almost as much as he hates all variations and synonyms of the word “fascinating.”

“Wonderful. I'm so glad,” he deadpans. “What do you want from me now?”

The Outsider doesn't seem perturbed by the assassin's lack of reverence. Instead, he chuckles and holds up two fingers.  _ “Burrows gave you two options: walk away from the burning building you set alight or throw the oil onto the flames yourself. Of all the possible choices I saw, the one I least expected was that you would throw yourself in instead. I'm legitimately surprised, old friend. A rare feat indeed.” _

“What about it is so ‘interesting’?” Daud asks defensively.

The Outsider sits up, smiles at him.  _ “That you would risk everything you've built, the people you claim not to care for, just to keep one child safe. One, might I add, who is only in danger because of you.” _

Daud scowls darkly. The god has told him nothing he didn't already tell himself, but hearing it out loud from someone else is different. “She would have been in danger even if I'd refused. Burrows would have just killed us and found a different assassin to do his dirty work.” He doesn’t believe the words even as he’s saying them.

_ “Her mother's blood stains your blade, not his.” _

There is no arguing with that. He's accepted that the princess will hate him, that Attano will likely kill him as soon as he takes back his charge (assuming they can get him out in the first place, but Daud will wholeheartedly try, he knows that much at least). It's what he probably deserves, if not for this murder then for all the ones who came before. He may have just been the messenger for others’ ill tidings, but he didn't have to be. It was his choice. Everything he'd done had been his choice since he was fifteen. His crimes are his own.

Before he can stop himself, Daud asks, “Is she safe? With us?” He doesn't reasonably expect the Outsider to answer him, but the question has been burning in his mind anyway.

Surprisingly, the Outsider grins at him.  _ “A princess guarded by a hoard of heretic assassins? I can't think of a child in Dunwall who's safer, can you?” _ A surprisingly straight answer, from him. 

And yet, Dunwall is hardly the safest city in the Empire right now, is it? Daud squares his shoulders, now resolute. Perhaps it’s not, but he and his Whalers have always made do before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It looks like people are actually reading this and enjoying it ohmygoshhhh, I don't think I'll ever get used to that xD  
> I really appreciate the feedback I've gotten, and if anyone wants to chat, hit me up! [I have a tumblr, if anyone's interested](https://donotfeedthewildauthor.tumblr.com/)


	3. In which Emily (officially) meets the Whalers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh look, fluff :D  
> I'm not sure how, but this is the third week in a row I've managed to update this. I, personally, am thrilled, but please don't get mad if I can't keep this up. I'm in grad school and stuff happens :/  
> Thank you everyone for reading!

Emily isn't sure what to think about the Whalers, even after Daud promises to keep her safe. They're still the assassins who kidnapped her and their leader is the one who killed her mother. She's tried to rationalize that, telling herself that it was really the Spymaster’s fault, that if Lord Burrows hadn't threatened Daud and his Whalers none of this would have happened in the first place. She'd never liked him, anyway. It should be easy to blame him for everything.

But it's never Burrows’ hand driving a sword through her mother in her nightmares. It's always Daud. Always.

Her room in the Flooded District is small, drafty, and smells of rot and damp. There isn't a guard outside the door anymore, but Quinn still stays with her most of the time. When she realized a couple days ago that Emily was having nightmares, she brought in a cot so she could sleep close by if Emily wanted her. She said her older sister used to let her climb into bed with her when she had nightmares, and it always helped her to have Galia close. Maybe it would help Emily to have someone close by. 

She knows Galia, of course. She looks almost exactly like Quinn, but her curly blonde hair is cropped close to her head and she never has Quinn's same carefree smile. Still, there's a gentle, maternal quality to her that makes Emily ache for her mother. More than anything, she wishes she could have her back, even if it's only for a moment. If she could just see her and hug her and hear her voice, it would make things so, so much better. Emily wants it so badly it hurts in a way she's never experienced.

When Emily counts the days, she finds it's been over a week since she came here (an odd choice of words, but they hurt less than all the alternatives), and despite almost constantly having someone to mind her, she's lonely. She  _ almost _ misses her boring tutors, if only because they would be a familiar source of human interaction. But the thought of being in a room with an untold number of Whalers with their masks and with  _ Daud _ makes her chest tighten with panic and her eyes fill with tears she's entirely too old for. It’s days before Quinn is finally able to persuade Emily to leave her room and join her and the others in the dining hall. Even then, Emily makes Quinn promise and swear on anything and everything that she'll never leave her side.

“No one will hurt you, I promise,” Quinn repeats, as if that's what Emily is afraid of. To be fair, she's not entirely sure  _ what _ she's afraid might happen. Her imagination can't get past those masks and the red of Daud’s coat.

Her mother's blood was the same color.

Emily just nods and clutches Quinn's hand as she lets the older girl lead her out of her room. Emily's eyes widen at the state of the building they're in; there are holes as big as she is or bigger in the ceiling and the wood under her shoes creaks with such a whine that she's afraid it will shatter out from under her. Quinn has none of Emily's ambivalence, she walks confidently and kindly helps Emily hop across rotten boards and gaping holes until they reach stairs that appear far more structurally sound.

“Where we’re at used to be the Chamber of Commerce,” Quinn explains. Her tone is light and excited, like she's giving Emily the grand tour of her home instead of a deathtrap of a building. “The ground floor is ruined, but the rest is all right. The dining hall is on the second floor. Your room is on the fourth, in one of the little offices. A few people have turned those into apartments, but we have some other spots around. Galia and I live above an old coffee shop down the street.”

Emily only nods. She can hear voices and footsteps getting louder the further down the stairs they go, but she still hasn't seen anyone. “How many people are living here?”

“Mmm, I'm not sure. There's at least forty Whalers, maybe fifty, but that's not everyone. We've got a few kids around that aren't even novices yet.”

Emily blinks. “Kids?”

“Yeah, usually the younger siblings or even the children of Whalers. A lot of us eventually join up, but as long as someone's taking jobs Daud lets the rest stay.” When Emily blinks at her again, Quinn flashes a bright smile. “I came here when I was about nine, and started training when I was twelve. Gal was old enough to join up immediately. She didn't really want me fighting, still doesn't, but I get kept away from the dangerous jobs.”

Emily wonders what exactly would qualify as a dangerous job to assassins with magic powers, but she doesn't ask. “Why did you two come here?”

Quinn's smile fades a bit, but she ruffles Emily's hair with the hand Emily isn't hanging off of. To cheer herself up, Emily thinks. “I got sick, and Galia heard Daud had a doctor. She offered to join if Fisher treated me.”

“Oh…” Emily tries to imagine why girls her age would  _ choose  _ to live here in a rotting building with Daud. If she weren't so tightly wound and anxious, it might have been easier to focus on the excitement of learning magic and fighting. So, she asks: “Why go to  _ him, _ though?” She says it like she's afraid saying his name out loud will summon him, like the witches’ familiars in stories. Daud is supposed to be a witch, after all.

Quinn looks almost sad. “There wasn't anywhere else to go and we couldn't get jobs we could live with. For a lot of us, joining the Whalers was the only real option besides something like the Golden Cat or begging, and those...those aren't options with a future.”

“Doesn't sound like much of a choice,” Emily mumbles.

“Maybe not,” Quinn smiles again, even though it doesn't reach her eyes, “but I don't think many of us would do it differently if we had the chance.”

Emily goes quiet when they reach the second floor. She can hear whoops and shouts and excited chattering as breakfast gets into full swing. A pair of boys younger than she is run past her, and Emily cowers back against Quinn.

“It'll be okay,” she murmurs and gives Emily's hand a small squeeze before leading her into what might have once been a large office or meeting room. There's a long table at the back that's covered in food. At one end, there are two very out of place stoves right next to each other. A few people are standing beside the table, helping themselves to what's available before they go to sit at one of several smaller, mismatched tables crammed with equally mismatched chairs. The tables are mostly full, and Quinn catches sight of someone and bounces excitedly.

“Ooh! Galia!” She reaches up to wave and half the faces in the dining hall turn to look at them. At  _ her, _ Emily thinks. She presses herself closer to Quinn who lets go of her hand so she can put a comforting arm around Emily's shoulders.

Emily looks around in small starts and stops, afraid to let her gaze linger on anyone for too long, preferring instead to watch the floor in front of her as if she's afraid of tripping. She lets Quinn lead her to a round table in the back corner of the room. When Quinn stops, Emily chances a look up at the people sitting there. She recognizes Galia easily, and she's seen the three young men before when they guarded her door, but she doesn't know their names. One has brown-blonde hair in a short ponytail and a pale complexion. The other two look similar enough to be brothers with dark olive skin, wavy black hair, and dark eyes. One's nose is a little flat and crooked, like it had been broken in the past, and the other has black lines from a tattoo on his forearm peeking out from under his right sleeve. They all smile at her when she looks at them.

“Hey, there,” Galia says, leaning forward a bit to put herself closer to eye-level with Emily. For a moment, she’s afraid Galia will ask how she's feeling, she doesn't know how she'd respond or how an honest answer would be received. “It's good to see you out and about,” is what Galia says instead, and Emily exhales a breath she didn't know she was holding.

Quinn pulls out a chair and motions for Emily to sit. It's between Galia and another empty chair that Emily hopes Quinn will take. When she sits, Quinn smiles at her and pats her shoulder. “Is this okay?” When Emily nods, she asks, “Is okay if I go get us some food? I'll just be right over there, and Galia will stay with you.”

What Emily wants to do is grip Quinn tight and remind her she promised she wouldn’t leave, but that would be childish. She chances a look up at Galia who gives her a reassuring smile before she turns to nod at Quinn.

“I'll be right back,” she says and squeezes Emily's shoulder a little before she leaves to get them food.

Emily slowly looks up at the others at the table and they all give her smiles at varying levels of discomfort.

“So…” the one with the tattoo begins, looking down as he swirls his coffee cup. 

“Do you know everyone’s names?” Galia asks. When Emily shakes her head, Galia points to each man in turn, introducing the blonde beside her as Thomas, the man with the tattoo as Rinaldo, and the one with the broken nose as Rulfio. Each gives a little smile when their name is given.

Emily responds with a slight nod, shifting her shoulders up in an effort to hide a little and the table descends into silence until Quinn returns. She sets a plate of food down in front of Emily, chattering benignly as she slides into her own chair. It takes Emily entirely too long to realize that Quinn is the only one talking and that Galia is the only one attempting eye contact. Even she isn't doing well on that front. The men (they’re so young it feels weird to call them that, but they're too old to be called boys) are focusing primarily on their food with only occasional glances at Emily. She feels like she's intruding on what was probably a pleasant morning for them. Like when she would burst unexpectedly into her mother's rooms in the morning and she and Corvo would quickly pretend they hadn't been holding each other.

She suddenly feels as if she's going to cry. She leans on Quinn’s shoulder and the older girl wraps an arm around her shoulders in a gentle hug. It’s a relief when she goes on speaking, choosing not to draw the others’ attention to Emily’s mood.

Lunch goes better, as does dinner. Emily finally is able to settle into something like a calm and manages not to cling desperately to Quinn on the way down to breakfast the next morning. She does, however, have a moment of panic when she sees Daud again. He appears in the dining hall during dinner, stops abruptly, and stares at Emily like he’d forgotten that he gave her permission to leave her room. She quickly scrunches down, wanting to hide, but still stares back at him. After a moment, Daud appears to remember himself and draws in a breath before going to the table in the back to collect his food. Occasionally, he glances at Emily and catches her staring at him before they both look away. He doesn’t make eye contact with her, Emily notices, and he has shadows under his eyes like he hasn’t been sleeping well. To be fair, she doesn’t try to make eye contact, either.

* * *

 

Someone brings her books. She wakes one morning to a neat stack of them on the desk. One is a battered collection of fairy tales she had a copy of in her room in the Tower. Three are clearly textbooks from the Academy of Natural Philosophy (she’d have recognized them as such even if she didn’t remember seeing them in Sokolov’s office), one of which is a history book that she immediately sets aside, but the other two are on alchemy and physiology. The last is a collection of poetry and looks new compared to the others.

When Quinn arrives to escort her to breakfast, Emily shows them to her, but she doesn’t know who brought them, either. When they ask Galia, she doesn't  _ say _ she knows where they came from, but she does give Thomas a knowing smirk he returns with a shrug and a poorly-hidden grin behind his coffee cup.

“On a separate but related note, we should maybe work out some kind of lesson plan for you?” Rinaldo says. “I'm sure you're getting bored.”

“I have paper and crayons.” Emily tries not to sound defensive, but she isn't sure she's successful. Her mind jumps to her boring history lessons, etiquette lectures, and civics seminars. As much as part of her wants the familiarity, she doesn't want the reminder that she'll have to be Empress far too soon for her to ever be ready.

“I don't know if we're exactly qualified…” Thomas mumbles.

“What kind of schooling do princesses get, anyway?” Rulfio asks.

“Boring things. Like history and etiquette and legal code,” Emily grumbles.

Rulfio snorts. “Oh, yeah, we're not qualified. Well, maybe the legal code. A bit.” He grins at Emily before he takes a drink of coffee. “Just...not on the side of things you'll want to be on.” He doesn't seem bothered when Rinaldo gives him a halfhearted swat to the shoulder with a roll of his eyes. She's learned that they are indeed brothers, and that Rulfio is the oldest by a year, even though he doesn't act like it.

In spite of herself, Emily grins back. She can imagine what her civics tutor would say about her learning the law from assassins. “Probably not.”

Galia rolls her eyes at them and leans back in her chair. “Well, Fisher is probably the best educated out of all of us. He's no natural philosopher, but he's a good physician. Maybe we can persuade him to let Lady Emily hang around the infirmary a bit.”

Rulfio’s face lights up.  _ “Please _ get him to teach her how to do a field dressing, it'll be hilarious.”

Rinaldo gives him an exasperated look. Emily is starting to think that's his default expression where his brother is concerned. “...Why?”

“Because it's not something anyone would ever expect.” He looks almost offended at having to explain the joke. “It isn't like she'll be close enough to any fights to use it, but it's something she can pull out of her back pocket to make those noble bast--I mean jerks--uncomfortable.”

Galia shoots him a warning glare, but Emily perks up at the idea.

“She thinks it'll be fun, don't you, Highness?”

Emily nods enthusiastically. Corvo discouraged pranks on the nobles in her mother's court, and while he probably won't budge on that front, this is hardly a prank. “Oh, but, um… You can just call me Emily, if you like,” she says quietly. “All of you. I don't mind.” She almost adds that she would prefer it, actually, but she doesn't want to make them uncomfortable. “I already told Quinn she could.”

The Whalers at the table pause to look at her, a couple of them blinking like they weren't quite processing what she said, then Rulfio smiles. “All right, Emily. What say you about taking a trip with Quinn and me to pester Fisher?” Before she can answer, he gasps excitedly. “Ooh, Quinn, have you transversed with her yet?”

“No. I've never done it with a passenger, I'm worried I'll drop her,” Quinn says, shaking her head.

Emily fidgets in her chair, suddenly excited even though she doesn't know what about. “What's that?”

“Oh you're gonna  _ love it,” _ Rulfio promises.

“Food first,” Galia chides, poking her fork at Emily's plate. “Shenanigans after.”

Emily does, indeed, love the transversals. Quinn gives a brief demonstration, disappearing out of one of the Chamber of Commerce’s large, open windows and reappearing on the makeshift gangway a good twenty feet away. Hearing that the Whalers have the Outsider’s magic is one thing, but actually seeing them use it is something else entirely. A little voice reminds her that she has seen them use their magic before, but she's not going to think about  _ that _ if she can help it.

Quinn reappears at her side, smiling brightly. “Transversals aren't strictly necessary to get into most of the buildings, but it's easier for the taller ones. Fisher put his infirmary up high.” 

“Extra security,” Rulfio chimes in.

Emily nods, bouncing on the balls of her feet in excitement. “Can everyone here do that? What else can you do? How do you do it? Can I learn?”

Quinn pulls the glove off her left hand and shows her the back. There's a pink, indistinct scar there that Emily can't quite make sense of, but it almost looks like a compass. “We share powers with Daud. It's called the Arcane Bond.” She pulls her glove back on. “Not everyone takes to it, and not everyone is able to use the full magic. I can only transverse and use Void Gaze. But...you do have to have a bond with Daud to use it…”

Quinn tries to word it delicately, and Emily appreciates it; she knows she's been transparent about how much Daud still bothers her. Luckily, she's only seen him a few times in passing. He stays by his office mostly, and Emily has made a point to stay away after Quinn told her where it is.

“It’s probably not a good idea, anyway,” Emily admits. “Mother worked with the Abbey a lot. I guess I'll have to, too.”

Quinn and Rulfio exchange a look and Emily mentally kicks herself for spoiling things. They were trying to do something fun and she had to go and ruin it like a petulant ch--

“You want to see what it’s like?” Rulfio asks, interrupting her train of thought. His tone is still light, so maybe she didn’t ruin anything after all.

Emily nods and forces herself to smile and get excited again. “Yes! What do I do?”

Rulfio bends down and gets her to climb on his back, wrapping her arms around his neck as he holds her legs. “All right, it’s a little disorienting, but I’ll only do it once before we really get going. Tell me if you think you’re going to be sick, all right?”

She nods again, holding tight to Rulfio as the world blurs and distorts into shadow and ash around her. There’s an odd taste in her mouth, like she’s standing too close to an arc pylon or Wall of Light and it’s so strange, but she can smell the ocean under it. Everything shifts and suddenly they’re across the gangway. For a second, Emily is too exhilarated to notice that she feels like her stomach was left behind. It’s not bad enough for her to get sick, but she can see where someone might.

“Well?” Rulfio asks, looking back at her. “What do you think?”

“Secondhand transversals can be rough,” Quinn says as she appears beside them, voice full of concern. “Do you feel all right?”

Emily giggles breathlessly, hugging Rulfio’s neck. “Can we do it again?!”

His response is a grin and a, “Hold on tight,” before they’re off again. They do several transversals in quick succession, Quinn following right behind them, until Emily’s head is spinning even as she shouts in triumph and excitement.

“You still good, kiddo?” Rulfio asks, bending to let Emily climb off his back.

She nods, but stumbles a little once she’s on solid ground, prompting him to reach out to balance her. Quinn materializes behind her and puts her own hands on Emily’s shoulders. Once she no longer feels like everything is moving around her, Emily looks around to see where they’ve landed. There’s a wide-open warehouse door behind her, looking out on a catwalk with a chain hanging off the side from a bar overhead. Part of her wants to see how high up they are, but she decides against it. Someone has erected a makeshift wall to separate the infirmary proper from the elements and she can hear someone speaking beyond it.

“--strenuous activity for a few days, so no heavy lifting,” they say, “or sparring.” Emily can't quite determine from the pitch whether the voice belongs to a man or a woman.

Another voice, this one slightly accented, whines, “Why’s he get to leave and I’m still stuck here?!” No one responds to him, but Emily distinctly hears what sounds like someone being struck in the face with a pillow.

“Yes, sir. Thank you,” someone else says respectfully. “See you, Misha.”

“Fuck off,” the second speaker grumbles.

A tall man with shaggy brown hair steps out of the infirmary, nearly colliding into Rulfio. “Oh. Hello.”

“Hey, Kieron. Emily, this is Kieron, another one of the captains,” Rulfio says, gesturing to the black armband on the man’s dark blue coat. It’s the same coat he, Rinaldo, Galia, and Thomas wear. Quinn’s is gray, and while Emily has seen many other Whalers in dark blue, only a couple have the black armband. She assumes the colors denotes rank. The City Watch has a similar system with their uniforms.

Kieron blinks down at Emily, freezing when he sees her. She offers him a smile smile. “Hello. Were you injured?”

“Um, yes. I got shot in the shoulder, but I’m feeling better now.” He looks anxious to leave, fidgeting with the Whaler mask he’s holding before he remembers it and tucks it behind his back. “Are you feeling sick?”

“No, I’m fine.”

“She handles transversals like a champ, actually,” Rulfio interjects, and Emily blushes faintly at the note of probably undeserved pride.

Kieron gives a small smile that makes the corners of his eyes crinkle. It doesn’t do much to lessen his overall air of discomfort, however. “Good to hear. Now, um, excuse me, I have to go report in with Master Daud. Sorry. Nice meeting you.” He steps to the open doorway Emily, Rulfio, and Quinn entered through and disappears before Emily can respond.

A new face appears in the doorway, this one belonging to an older man with grey-streaked dark hair and a round face with soft features. He narrows his eyes at them. “Rulfio, if that is another injured novice, I am going to shoot you.” Oh, he’s the owner of the first voice, that answers that.

Quinn snickers and Emily looks up at Rulfio questioningly as the man in question holds his hands up in a placating gesture. “You wouldn’t shoot an unarmed man, would you?”

The older man snorts. “Pfft, ‘unarmed’ he says…” He steps out to inspect Quinn and Emily for injuries. “What’s wrong with you, then?”

“Nothing, actually,” Quinn speaks before Rulfio can. She smiles brightly and puts her hands on Emily’s shoulders. “Emily, this is our physician, Fisher. Fisher, this is Emily.”

Fisher immediately dips into a bow. “Your Highness.”

“Just Emily is fine.” The fact that she has to keep saying that to criminals is strange, they’re the last people she’d have expected to be formal.

“Emily, then.” He straightens. His coat is dark blue as well, but he has a white armband she hasn’t seen on any of the other Whalers. “What brings you lot to my office?” He turns and walks off towards the infirmary, tilting his head towards it as an indication for them to follow. The room is neat, with two rows of beds on either side of the room. Only one is occupied, by a grumpy-looking dark-haired man propped up on pillows and holding another on his lap. He does, however, perk up in interest when they enter.

“Galia thought you might be able to help come up with some kind of lesson plan for Miss Emily,” Rulfio responds. When Emily opens her mouth to correct the honorific, he just ruffles her hair, grinning when she scowls and tries to right it. “None of the rest of us are exactly qualified, and I thought it would be hilarious if you taught her about field medicine.”

Fisher frowns. “I’m not a babysitter. No offense,” he directs the last part to Emily who shrugs in an attempt to not appear bothered.

“That’s her job, so you’re fine,” Rulfio points back at Quinn, ignoring her when she sticks her tongue out in his direction, making Emily giggle.

Fisher still frowns and walks over to his desk. “Maybe we can work on some things, but I’m not a very good teacher, and I get busy.”

“What? You mean you don’t just sit up here complaining at us?” Rulfio says in mock wonderment.

“Cute,” Fisher monotones. “Why don’t you train her with the novices? I’d think that would be more useful than field medicine. She might actually need use fighting skills.”

Emily’s face lights up at that, but Rulfio winces. Quinn frowns thoughtfully, but nods after a moment of consideration. “That might be a good idea,” she says. “You and Galia are teachers, Rulf.”

“You can teach me how to fight?!” Emily is practically bouncing. She’s asked Corvo so, so many times to teach her, but her mother thought it was too dangerous and Burrows hated the idea even more (with everything that's happened, she thinks she knows why). The closest she ever got to actual lessons were the handful of times she persuaded Corvo to pretend to sword fight with her using sticks in the garden.

Rulfio returns her exuberance with a strained smile. “I don’t know if that’s really a good idea…”

“Why not?” Fisher’s on her side. “People are going to be coming after her for her whole life, it’ll be better if she doesn’t have to rely solely on others.”

“Let ‘er fight!” the bedridden man (Emily is fairly certain she heard Kieron call him Misha) says loudly. “C’mon, it’ll be fun!”

“We can always ask Galia,” Quinn says sunnily. “I'm sure she'll agree. Or one of the other instructors.”

Rulfio startles, like he's just now realized that he’s being treated like the adult in charge. “Wait. What the f--”

“Rulf!” Fisher barks, pointing towards Emily as Quinn covers her ears. Emily is too busy trying to stifle giggles to protest being treated like a small child.

The Whaler stops himself and sighs, running his fingers through his hair. “Honestly, if Galia doesn't mind, I'd be game.”

Emily squeals and bounces over to catch Rulfio in the tightest hug she can manage. “Thank you thank you thank you!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I know that there's only supposed to be different color coats to differentiate the novices from the masters and from Daud and Billie, but that's so vague. Armbands are subtle and make sense to me :D  
> Of course, this does imply that Billie originally just had a red armband before she decided to be Extra...  
> [I have a tumblr, if anyone's interested](https://donotfeedthewildauthor.tumblr.com/), especially if you just want to scream about Dishonored with me. My friends are getting tired of hearing about it ^^;


	4. In which Daud (unofficially) adopts Emily (1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo, two part chapter because it got too long to include the other scene I had planned to go with the chapter title. But! This does mean that we get some extra Emily scenes in the next one that starts setting up for *long-term plans* that I decided on, like, yesterday.
> 
> Week four in a row of updates yaaay! I worked on this instead of my thesis proposal (#pleasesendhelp)
> 
> A very big thank you to everyone for reading and for leaving kudos and comments! :D

The sound of a transversal and a knock on the door pull Daud’s head up from where he examines a floorplan of Coldridge prison. “What?”

Thomas steps into the office, hands folded behind his back and looking around. “She seems to like the books,” he says without preamble. When Daud frowns at him, he gives a small smile. “They appeared after Galia said something about giving the princess some structure. It wasn’t hard to figure out.”

Daud still grumbles, turning instead to what used to be his target board. It still is, he supposes, but right now it’s covered with information about a very different kind of target. In the corner is a sketch of the Royal Protector someone pilfered from somewhere and pinned up without his knowledge. He’s not even sure how long it’s been there. It just goes to show how distracted he’s been since the Tower; he usually would have noticed that kind of thing immediately. Now, it’s been there too long to surreptitiously take down.

“Are they your books?” Thomas presses forward, undeterred. The boy has been getting too friendly with Galia; her gall has started to rub off on him. “She said three of them were textbooks.”

If he ever finds out who told the Whalers he spent time at the Academy of Natural Philosophy, he is going to gut them. At least he knows it’s a genuine question if it’s from Thomas. Now if it were Billie…

Daud sighs. “Yes.”

“I’ve seen the fairy tale book in our library, but where did the poetry one come from?”

“Courtesy of the Blairs.” They’re a wealthy family with an enviable library. He doubts they’d notice one missing book. Thomas’ expression softens a little and Daud shoots him a glare. “Don’t say _anything,”_ he threatens.

“I wasn’t!”

He is marginally more inclined to believe Thomas than some of the others. Still, he glares at him hard enough to sufficiently threaten violence before turning back to the floorplan on his desk. “How are defensive preparations going?”

“Good. Rulfio is getting the novices to help with barricades so the others can focus on the traps. He’ll probably have a report for you soon,” Thomas replies. “The sentries have nothing to report, neither do our men on Holger.”

“Good.” There’s no movement from the Overseers, then. At least they have that going for them.

Thomas nods, lips pursed together like he isn’t sure if he wants to say whatever he’s thinking. Evidently, he decides that he does because he says, “Has Burrows made contact with us?”

“He’s tried.” Daud sighs and leans over to brace his hands on the desk, scowling. He’s never liked dealing with the man, or the spineless servant he sends to be his proxy. With the princess's location still in the wind, Burrows has been trying to weasel into an actual face-to-face in the Tower. Daud isn’t sure if it’s because he’d rather scream at him in person or if the “Lord Regent” just wants Daud out of the way for the Overseer assault he’s no doubt planning. Regardless, Daud is done playing Burrows’ games. “I’ve managed to buy us some time, said we can’t move the girl one way or another because some ‘loyalist’ faction is watching the Pendletons, and probably some of his other allies.”

“Clever.”

“It was Billie’s idea. The man’s paranoid as all Void; rooting out some mysterious conspiracy that doesn’t exist should keep him occupied for a while. Long enough for us to finish defensive preparations, at least.” Who knows? Burrows’ search might even goad somebody into forming an actual conspiracy against the bastard.

“What are we going to do when they’re done? Are you going to tell him we have Emily?”

Daud’s eyebrow quirks slightly at Thomas’ apparent familiarity with the princess, but he doesn’t comment on it. “No,” he says instead. “I’ll just stop acknowledging him.”

“Why not just tell him no?”

“As much as I would love to, suddenly going quiet might buy us extra time.” He’s hoping Burrows is reluctant to lose the Whalers and himself as assets. If so, Burrows will want to be absolutely sure Daud has stopped indulging him before he sends the Overseers. There’s no undoing that kind of scorched earth order, and they've proven themselves invaluable thus far.

“You really think he'd send Overseers after us?” Thomas leans against a desk, arms crossed. “Even knowing as many secrets about him as we do?”

“The High Overseer is in his back pocket, I imagine he'd trust Campbell to either turn over or destroy any incriminating evidence that gets turned up.”

Thomas sighs. “I can see why you went through with the job.”

It's not much, but the assurance does smooth over one of the small cracks that have been forming in Daud since he killed the Empress. Not that he'll acknowledge it, of course. “Having second thoughts about completing it?”

“No,” the Whaler responds evenly. “No, I'm glad we're not.”

“What's the general consensus?”

Thomas shrugs. “Some grumbling, but we've reminded the more vocal ones that they're under no obligation to stay if they're that upset over it. Most are relieved. I don’t think this job was sitting well with some of them…” Daud nods at that. He’d figured as much. “The ones who are more aware of what we're risking are anxious,” Thomas continues, “but the fact that we're preparing for an attack is helping, I think. I've had a few from my squad scouting for somewhere we can move the kids. Fisher seems to think his infirmary is secure enough if he pulls the chain up and shuts the warehouse door.”

“He's probably right. We'll see if we can house a few people up there, provided the beds aren't needed for the injured.” Over the years, Daud has learned it's best to trust Fisher’s analyses. He has a history of paranoia that could give Burrows a run for his money.

“Provided he lets us.” There's a smile in Thomas' voice and Daud turns around to return it.

“I'm sure he'll get over it.”

Thomas chuckles. “So, where _is_ Billie? I haven't seen her in a couple days.”

“I have her looking into Delilah.” Daud drops his smile at the reminder of the Outsider.

“Just her?”

“For now.” He shifts to fold his arms across his chest, his hip leaning on the desk. “I'll assign a few more once we've gotten a few of the more pressing items ticked off the ‘to-do’ list.”

“Who do you think this ‘Delilah’ is?”

Daud huffs a sigh. “If we’re lucky, someone who can take the princess off our hands.”

Thomas makes a face. “Come on, she's not that bad.”

“You know what I mean.” From what he's heard, the princess is a fairly normal kid, but she's still a princess. Protecting her or not, it isn't good for her to be spending time with the assassins. It would be best for her if they found her somewhere with more respectable allies.

* * *

Respectable goes out the window about two weeks later. Daud doesn’t spend much time in the training room with the novices, not like he used to, but he does like to poke his head in on them periodically. The lights have been rearranged so that as little of the room is in shadow as possible, and he notes Quinn perched on one of the high bookshelves. She's sitting by herself, absentmindedly kicking her feet back and forth, as she watches Galia run a class with eight of the youngest novices.

That the younger Fleet sister doesn’t have the princess with her should have been his first clue.

“Now a lot of people are quick to discount knives as weapons,” Galia is saying, spinning a wooden practice knife around her fingers so fluidly that she has the entire attention of even the most fidgety children. Beside her is a practice dummy someone has taken the liberty of giving a face: a comical version of the sneer the Overseer masks are known for. “Obviously, they're short, making it extra difficult to keep distance between you and your opponent since you need to get close in order to do much. But,” Galia abruptly stops spinning the knife and jams it into the gut of the practice dummy for emphasis, “a knife is much faster than a sword. It can be just as deadly, if not more so, if you're able to maintain the element of surprise.

“In addition, you can hide a knife, or many knives, easily on your person. This way, if something happens to your sword, you won’t be caught unarmed. So, we’re going to practice your knifework.” She claps her hands together once and gestures to a box beside her. “Everyone take a practice blade and line up. You’re going to practice jabbing a knife into Brother Lucky here.” Galia pats the training dummy on the shoulder as the assembled children giggle and scramble to their feet.

She’s grinning when she finally catches sight of Daud and gives him a small wave. The novices don’t notice and proceed to make, decidedly clumsy, attempts to stab the training dummy. But this is still an early lesson. The novices listen to Galia’s directions and soon they’re able to land solid strikes. Daud watches from the back doorway, pleased and perfectly content to not be noticed until one of the novices chances a look back at him and he just about falls over.

Emily Kaldwin looks as shocked to see him as he is to see her.

The two of them stare hard at each other for several solid seconds before Emily breaks eye contact, scrunching up her shoulders and turning back to Galia. By all accounts, she’s gotten comfortable around the Whalers and several of them are quite taken with her, but she always seems about ready to jump out of her skin whenever she sees Daud. He can’t blame her, though he’s hardly happy about it. It’s scarcely been a month since he killed her mother in front of her.

She’s probably having nightmares very similar to his own.

Daud shakes himself and regains his composure. He’s not about to pull Galia aside for a discussion in the middle of a lesson, especially not with a room full of novices, Emily herself among them. Instead, he clears his throat to get her attention. (It does not escape his notice that the princess flinches at the sound.) “Galia, come to my office when you’re done in here.”

Galia looks concerned for a second, but her eyes flit between him and the princess. No doubt she logics exactly what he wants to talk about. “I’ll be there in a bit, sir,” she sighs.

He nods and turns, leaving her to wrangle back the attention of the now thoroughly distracted novices.

When Galia knocks on his door an hour later, Daud is sitting behind his desk, going over some useless report that’s not even worth the paper it's written on. He may need to rethink the Coldridge problem.

“Explain to me,” he begins, not looking up, “why the princess is learning how to stab someone?”

Galia doesn’t respond until she’s walked over to him. “She needed structure.”

“That was not what I meant when I agreed to that, and you know it.”

She smiles a little before schooling her expression back to neutral. “She goes and has some lessons with Fisher sometimes, but he’s busy. And there really isn’t anyone else who feels comfortable enough to take over.” Fidgeting, she adds, “She’s probably had more schooling than all the rest of us put together already…”

Fair point, but that isn't what the problem is. Daud scowls at her.

“Fisher thought it was a good idea,” Galia says hopefully.

“Of course he did.”

“He’s the one who suggested it. Ask him.”

Daud grumbles quietly, tossing the report aside to pick up another.

“If I may, sir, why is this a problem?”

“She’s going to be Empress. It isn’t exactly appropriate for her to be learning how to kill a man.” It feels like he’s the only one who remembers who she’s going to be, that she’s not just any kid.

“Not even to defend herself?” Galia shifts closer to the desk. “Sir, she’s going to be a target for the rest of her life.”

“She’ll have people to protect her.” Until then, that was what they are _supposed_ to be doing, not...whatever this is.

Galia looks away, hesitates for a second before murmuring, “With all due respect, sir, that didn’t work out so well for her mother.”

It catches him off guard and Daud flinches like she’s just struck him. He turns on her with a furious expression, but Galia’s gaze is firmly on the floor. At least she has the decency to look ashamed.

“Sorry,” she mumbles, “but it’s true.” Galia sighs and glances back up at him, expression almost pleading. “She’s just a little girl, Daud, and she’s scared. Suddenly she’s a pawn in a game being run by grown men who, for the most part, don’t care a lick about her. If all we’re going to do is bundle her off to someone else, I want her to be able to have _some_ control over her own wellbeing. Otherwise, she’ll never feel safe.”

Daud remains quiet. He’s all too familiar with being a made a tool by people who have entirely too much power over you. First by the men who stole him and made him what he is today, and later by Burrows. Void, she’s younger than he was.

He can clearly remember the moment he first felt like he’d taken back control of his life. Daud killed his masters when he was fifteen after three years of pain, blood, and hate. How long will it be before Emily is allowed to rule in her own right? Even if Burrows is somehow eliminated, there will still be a regency. He knows Dunwall’s nobles, knows that they were vicious towards her mother and that they will be even more savage when the Empress they answer to is less than half their age. She may never have this kind of opportunity again.

He heaves a sigh and rubs his temples, suddenly so very _tired_.

“If you order it, I’ll stop training her,” Galia murmurs.

“But you won’t be happy about it, will you?” Daud looks at her.

“No.”

“What does she think?”

“She loves the idea. Apparently, she’s been trying to get the Lord Protector to teach her how to fight for a while. She asked Rulfio as soon as Fisher suggested it.”

_“No._ Absolutely not.” Daud is very, very aware of Rulfio’s track record. It’s like the man’s a walking corrupt bone charm. He’s a great teacher, fantastic even, but if there are going to be any training injuries, any at all, they're going to be under him.

Galia cracks a smile. “Why do you think I have her?”

* * *

 

Guilt, he decides, does strange things to you. Two days later, he makes a point to catch Quinn and Emily on their way back upstairs after dinner.

“May I have a moment?”

The princess freezes and glues herself to Quinn’s side like she hasn’t done in weeks, not since she started getting friendly with the Whalers. Quinn just puts an arm around her shoulders to comfort her. Daud doesn’t move, not wanting to scare her any more than he already is. They’re close enough to Emily’s room for the princess to bolt if she wants, he doesn’t want her to feel trapped.

“Your Highness?” The Whalers have largely been given permission to call her Emily, but he isn’t about to presume the privilege extends to him.

“Do you need something?” she finally responds. She tries to sound, well, imperial, but is unable to hide the childish quiver in her voice.

“I just wanted to talk to you for a moment.” When Emily looks up at Quinn, he adds, “Quinn is welcome to stay if you want.”

She nods and Quinn squeezes her in a slight hug. “Do you want to go sit in your room?” she asks. Emily hesitates and for half a second Daud thinks she’s going to panic, but she nods instead.

Daud follows a good three paces back, but he can practically see the princess’s hair standing on end. She is trying, though, taking slow deep breaths to calm down. One of the Whalers probably showed her how, he hasn’t seen her do that before. By the time they make it to the end of the hall, she no longer looks like she’s about to start shaking and sobbing. Something in Daud eases ever so slightly at that.

Like last time, Daud doesn’t shut the door behind him and is careful not to block Emily’s path to it. When Emily sits on the edge of her bed facing the desk and pulls Quinn down beside her, Daud edges further into the room.

“You can have a seat if you want,” Emily says, nodding lightly at the desk chair.

Daud manages not to express his surprise, instead murmuring, “Thank you,” as he turns the chair around to face her and sits.

“Do you have any news?” she asks before he is able to gather his own thoughts. When he doesn’t immediately respond, she clarifies, “About Corvo.”

Of course. “We’ve obtained plans for Coldridge prison and are formulating a strategy for surveillance.” He won’t be able to watch the prison himself, and Daud isn’t about to send even a single Whaler to that place without contingencies for their contingency plans.

This is clearly not what the princess had hoped to hear because she frowns and begins fidgeting with a shirtsleeve. “I… I thought…”

“We might be closer?”

She nods.

Daud sighs. He’d already resolved to be honest and up-front with her. “Your Highness, this has never been done before, by us or by anyone else. I am reluctant to put my men in unnecessary danger. We have to proceed carefully.”

“You said he’s going to be executed. What if…” Emily looks up at him with wide eyes.

“Burrows will make an announcement.” The execution of the Empress’s murderer is sure to be a massive propaganda event, even more so if the man actually confesses. Theoretically, they have as long as it takes for either Burrows to lose patience or Attano to break. “So far, no date has been set. Lord Attano is safe for the time being.” Relatively speaking.

Either Emily doesn’t know about Coldridge’s reputation for destroying men or she doesn’t want to acknowledge it because she relaxes ever so slightly and nods.

“Before we can devote too many resources to him, we need to finish some defensive preparations as well,” Daud continues. It strikes him that this feels almost as though he’s _reporting_ to her.

“The Overseers?” Emily looks up a little. “I’ve heard people talking.”

Void, he should have been clearer that this was to be kept from the princess if at all possible. “Yes. Burrows threatened to send Overseers to our doorstep if we did not do as he wanted. They would likely aim to kill us if they do come.” He would say when instead of if, but he doesn’t want to scare the girl more than she already is. “There have been some difficulties, but we should be wrapping up preparations soon.” The hardest part was proving to be finding safe places to move all the children to for the foreseeable future.

She nods. “That’s good. I don’t… I don’t want anyone getting hurt because of me.”

Daud raises an eyebrow slightly. He wasn’t expecting that sentiment. “Rest assured, Highness, we will be doing everything in our power to avoid that.”

The ghost of a smile flicks across Emily’s face, only to disappear as quickly as it appeared. Quinn leans over to give her a hug, resting her cheek on the younger girl’s head. “It’ll be okay,” she murmurs, then looks up at Daud. “Was there something else, sir?”

“Yes.” Daud shifts a little in his chair. “I saw you training with Galia the other day. She says you’re doing well.”

Emily stiffens mildly. “...Do we have to stop?” Her expression is somewhere between pleading and steeling herself for disappointment.

“No, we already had that discussion,” Daud sighs. He’d actually assumed Galia had told her about it already. “We agreed that it would be good to train you how to defend yourself while you’re here.”

Not only does the princess visibly relax, she actually smiles at him. “Thank you.”

He tries not to look discomfited. That certainly took care of any lingering doubts he had about letting Galia work with her. “Actually, I wanted to…” Was “help” the correct word here? Before he can lose his nerve, he reaches into a pocket and pulls out what he’d found for her. It’s a narrow knife intended to be discreetly worn under clothing. The sheath has ties to attach it to a limb or the waist and the leather is stamped in a floral motif.

“This is for you,” he says, offering it, handle first, to Emily. “It’s smaller than the knives we use. It should be easier for you hide.”

Emily reaches for it cautiously, pulling the knife out to inspect it, expression ambiguous. Quinn, however, has to bite her lip to keep from grinning too openly. When she looks at Daud, eyes bright, he shoots her a glare warning her not to say anything.

“I can keep this?” Emily asks, looking hopefully up at Daud. It isn’t until he nods that she smiles at the gift. “Thank you!” She bounces to her feet and takes a step forward before she remembers herself, and more importantly who _he_ is, and stops. “I appreciate it, sir. Thank you so much.”

“Get Galia to train you with that,” he says, choosing not to mention or think about how it looked like she was about to hug him. “It’s weighted differently than the training ones.”

The princess nods, but a genuine smile starts to break back through her imperial façade as she examines the design on the sheath. “Can… Is it all right if I ask you something?”

Daud blinks. “Yes?”

Emily fidgets and looks away, nervous again. “Were you the one who brought me those books?” She looks back at him before he’s able to smooth out his reflexive scowl and adds, “It… Nobody told me, but Fisher said something about how you used to be a student at the Academy. Once, in passing.”

“Of course he did,” Daud mutters. When he sees Quinn move to cover her mouth with a hand to hold back a laugh, he glares at her again.

Emily must take his mood as confirmation because she says, “I wanted to thank you.”

He sighs, forcing his expression to smooth. “You’re welcome, Highness. Do you like them?”

She nods, but makes a face like she has something to add that she’s worried he won’t like.

“Is something wrong?”

“She thinks history is boring,” Quinn says. Her tone is clearly amused and she only smiles when Emily turns on her, cheeks puffed out in childish anger and reddening.

“Ah.” That’s reasonable. “Is there something you’d prefer to read about?”

Emily fidgets with the ties on her knife. “Maybe things about Pandyssia? Or ships? Or pirates?”

Daud raises an eyebrow. The books are stacked on the desk beside him and he reaches for the history textbook. “May I?” When Emily nods, looking confused, he takes the book. After flipping pages back and forth for a moment, he holds the open book out to Emily. “The Golden Age of Exploration is chapter nine. The information about pirates starts about halfway through and goes through chapter eleven. Pandyssia has its own chapter at the end.”

Emily blinks at him for a moment before she tentatively takes the book from him. “Oh… Thank you.”

“It's nothing,” Daud stands and edges towards the door. “I'll leave you two be, then. Good night.”

“Wait!” The word is out of Emily's mouth before she seems to fully process it because she just stares blankly at Daud when he turns. She gives herself a slight shake before resolutely holding her hand out in front of her. Now it's Daud's turn to stare blankly until he realizes she's offering to shake his hand.

“I… I know Burrows made you do it,” she murmurs, not making eye contact, “and you've stopped working for him to help me, and that you're risking your family. You're even looking to rescue Corvo for me. You're trying and… I just wanted to say that I'm trying, too.” Emily looks up at him and she's clearly still scared, but she has a determined set to her jaw.

Unsure what to say to that, Daud extends his own hand. He's surprised when the little princess grips his hand firmly. For a girl of her size, at least.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm probably disproportionately proud of that first scene transition, but I love it
> 
> [I have a tumblr, if anyone's interested.](https://donotfeedthewildauthor.tumblr.com/) Feel free to hit me up!


	5. In which Daud (unofficially) adopts Emily (2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You wouldn't like Dad!Daud when he's angry lol
> 
> Thank you again to everyone for reading, commenting, and/or leaving kudos! Y'all rock, and the validation is a major motivator, not gonna lie xD

Emily moves into to a small apartment with Galia and Quinn that’s so high up above the floodwaters below she needs one of them to transverse with her in order to enter or leave. That’s when the dreams start, seemingly innocuous and a welcome reprieve from the blood she’s become used to seeing every time she closes her eyes. They begin as splashes of color that slowly give way into more tangible imagery: a pencil sketching out something on off-white paper, bright splotches of paint on canvas, vines that move on their own, and women adorned in roses. Sometimes, she can actually smell the flowers when she wakes, but other than that there are no after-effects. At first.

It isn’t long before voices start filtering through the images. Well,  _ a _ voice. It’s only ever the one; a woman who speaks to Emily in mockingly sweet tones that she’s heard a hundred times over from pretentious adults. They’ve never made her as uncomfortable as the dreams do now. It takes a few nights for her to start making sense of the woman’s words. She asks questions that feel invasive and prying even when they’re something as harmless as her favorite color (blue) or her favorite toy (the doll Corvo gave her, Mrs. Pilsen). When the questions become more personal and insistent (what is she afraid of most? never seeing Corvo again, that she won’t be a good Empress, that she’ll let her mother and the whole Empire down), she doesn’t want to answer, but finds that she  _ can’t  _ not answer. Responses are dragged from her even when she bites her tongue or tries to clamp her hands down over her mouth. When she tries to lie (what is her most precious memory? when she--no, all the times she, her mother, and Corvo were able to just be a family, tucked safely away in her mother’s rooms) the truth flees from her mouth before she can even begin.

Sometimes, Emily can feel a third presence in the dreams. Whoever it is stays outside her field of vision and makes no sounds, but she can feel them watching with almost tangible curiosity. Being watched so intently should make her even more nervous, but when they appear, Emily strains to reach for them, hoping for help.

She starts to fear falling asleep. Quinn lets her crawl into bed with her, snuggles her up close and warm and safe, but these aren’t like the nightmares she’s she’s had before. Feeling safe with someone she trusts close by does nothing. 

When she starts to yawn so frequently during lessons that she can’t get out an uninterrupted sentence, Fisher takes her cheeks in his hands to stare at the circles under her eyes and frowns. He shines a small light in her face, checks her temperature, asks her if she’s feeling all right, and has she been getting enough sleep? It doesn’t even occur to Emily that she should mention the dreams, so she only shakes her head and says she’s been having trouble sleeping. Fisher’s frown deepens and he mutters something that sounds close to genuine concern as he digs through cabinets and drawers. He pauses to snap at Rulfio when he drops off a novice who twisted his ankle mucking up a landing on a transversal, but returns to Emily with a small tin of tea leaves. Chamomile, he says, to help her relax and sleep.

It doesn’t help. Falling asleep isn’t the issue, it’s what happens when she does. Maybe she should have been more clear when Fisher asked? She’s moving sluggishly through her training sessions with Galia, barely able to swing the knife Daud gave her without her eyesight going funny. More often than not, she misses the training dummy and Galia pushes her to sit down before fussing over her like a mother hen. Emily’s eyes flutter shut when Galia gently holds her face to check her temperature. Her touch is so soothing, maybe she could just fall asleep right here and maybe there wouldn’t be any dreams?

Instead, Galia takes her back to Fisher who shines a light in her eyes again and eventually calls Daud, passing him a list of things he wants the patrols to “acquire” if they can. Emily is too tired to stop herself from openly watching the assassin and she wonders why Fisher doesn’t say anything about his appearance. Surely he can see Daud looks as tired as she feels? But maybe they have an agreement, she thinks. Daud doesn’t glare or glower at Fisher like he does all the other Whalers, but then almost all the other Whalers are younger than the two of them. Maybe Daud is nice to him because he's their doctor? Why is Fisher a Whaler, anyway? She can’t hold onto a train of thought any more than she can hold her tongue in the face of the woman’s questions.

The days start blending together so that Emily can’t be sure at the time how long this goes on for, but she later figures that the dreams begin in the middle of her second month at Rudshore and are at their worst three weeks later. It feels like she moves through the fog of sleep deprivation for forever, but in reality it’s only a week. Still, sleeping only a few unsatisfying hours each night is taking physical toll on her small body. The people around her are very clearly worried.

One night, Emily is able to distinctly remember closing her eyes only to open them moments later to a strange, swirling blue, like the sky after a storm. Her physical exhaustion is forgotten as a giant whale soars overhead, calling out a low, melancholy song that leaves her awestruck. She’s seen the great beasts pinned up on whaling trawlers as they sailed past the Tower, but those ones couldn’t have been so large, could they? How would the ships stay afloat?

The whale flies away and Emily notices the world has changed around her. She’s still in the apartment she’s sharing with the Fleet sisters, but the roof and a great deal of the walls have been blown away, debris suspended in midair. Neither Galia or Quinn are anywhere to be found and she's distantly aware that should scare her, or at least make her uneasy, but for the moment she can’t bring herself to care. When she approaches a section of wall to inspect it, she’s amazed to find that the water coming from a bisected pipe is actually flowing  _ up _ .

If this is a dream, it’s already the most pleasant one she’s had in a while. Easily.

Emily turns from the pipe to see if there’s a way out of the room. As soon as she finishes the thought, she hears brick and stone shift behind her as a broken segment of wall flattens out and stretches forward in a path. Well, then. If that isn’t a clear indication of where she should go, she doesn’t know what is.

The path cuts through a similarly blown apart version of Rudshore. She comes across the training room, spotlights askew and casting a strange purple light upwards, illuminating another whale as it passed overhead, farther away than the first. It looks like the training dummies are missing until she finds them floating above her, drifting lazily like they’re underwater. The dining hall is on its side and she must walk across the wall to continue, though the chairs and tables stay firmly in place on the now vertical floor. Has she ever even seen it empty like this?

Just when Emily begins to consider calling out for someone, she feels the hair on the back of her neck prickle and smells the mix of ozone and sea salt she knows from the Whalers’ transversals. There’s someone just up ahead, though she can’t explain how she knows this. A makeshift staircase cobbles itself together from loose brick and mortar and she continues in silence until she can see the outline of a person.

She’s never seen this woman before, but she’s familiar. Her short dark hair is slicked back and her eyes look like they’re lined with kohl. Her dark shirt and trousers are grown all over with thorny vines that bloom up into roses around her front. In one hand, she holds a pencil and is reaching up like she’s sketching something on an invisible easel. As Emily stares, the woman doesn’t so much as blink. When she works up the courage to walk close enough to touch her, it feels like she’s made of stone. She sees something out of the corner of her eye and looks up at the woman's hands. On the back of the left is a sharp, black shape that looks like a more distinct version of what she’s seen on the backs of many Whalers’ hands.

Emily hears the echo of a sickeningly sweet, mocking voice vibrating through her fingers and jumps back, letting go of the woman's arm. She knows who she is now.

_ “Aren’t you unexpectedly interesting?” _

She whips around, gasping for a scream, but despite the strange appearance of the boy who’s suddenly appeared behind her, she doesn’t release it. He looks young, maybe about Quinn’s age, yet impossibly older at the same time. He’s dressed in all black as if to call attention to how unnaturally pale he is, and his leather coat has a high collar and far too many buckles to be practical. It looks bulky on him, like its purpose is to hide how scrawny and gangly he is more than anything else. Emily can’t quite catch sight of his eyes under his scraggly black bangs, but she does notice that he appears to be floating as he regards her with a familiar almost tangible curiosity.

“I know you…” she says slowly. 

_ “Oh? Funny, considering we were never supposed to meet.” _

Emily takes a tentative step closer, eying the boy with scrutiny. She’s never seen him, but he’s familiar nonetheless. “You’re the person who’s in my dreams sometimes. The ones with her.”

She points to the statue-like shade of the woman and the boy gives her a smile that should, for all intents and purposes, be unnerving.  _ “You’ve actually managed to pull yourself over to me. I’m genuinely surprised, Your Majesty.” _

She bristles and scowls before she can catch herself. No, don’t do that, it’s rude. She inhales deeply to calm herself and is pleased when her voice comes out evenly. “I’m not the Empress yet.”

_ “You are, though,” _ the boy tilts his head,  _ “if only in name.” _

How does she explain that until it’s official, until she’s sitting on the throne, she doesn’t want to think about how she’s taking her mother’s place without sounding like she’s being childish? She knows that she’s technically been Empress since her mother died, but the thought of actually… It’s been comforting that the Whalers have only addressed her as a princess, to say the least.

Instead, Emily frowns. She turns back to the woman and loosely hugs herself like she’s cold. “Is this a dream?”

_ “Of a sort.” _ Out of the corner of her eye, she sees the boy disappear into shadows only to reappear closer to her shoulder.  _ “When Delilah tried to pull your consciousness to her, you pulled back hard enough to escape into a more...liminal space.” _

Alarms ring in Emily’s head and she faces him. “Will I be able to wake up?”

He gives her another smile.  _ “I don’t see why not.” _ His eyes, she finally sees, are entirely black. 

She swallows nervously and turns back to look at the woman--Delilah. Rational thought would dictate she should be more afraid of this strange boy who can actually move and seems to have magic like the Whalers and Daud, not the statue of a marginally less strange woman, but dreams aren’t very rational things. For whatever reason, Emily is reluctant to take her eyes off her.

_ “I’m surprised you haven’t told anyone about your dreams,” _ the boy muses lazily. He leans forward and drifts closer to draw Emily’s eye, head tilted but his dark eyes almost burning into hers.  _ “You should.” _

She blinks and tries to think of a reply, but before she can, Emily wakes up.

* * *

The target board is getting out of hand. How much planning is necessary to break into one building? At least now Daud is getting actual surveillance reports; guard patrols, prisoner transfers, interrogation schedules and the like, but there’s been shuffling from the Tower and Holger Square. He isn’t able to send as many men as he’d like to scout out Coldridge. Things are coming together much slower than he would like, and he’s fairly certain Emily feels the same.

Void, the last few times he’s seen her, she’s looked awful. Fisher told him that she hasn’t been sleeping well for a few weeks. The physician normally wouldn’t suggest something like a sleeping tincture for someone so young, but Emily has admitted that she's probably only slept a collective twelve hours across four days. The look Galia gave Daud suggested that number might be an overestimate. He wants to know what’s wrong, if there’s something he can do to fix it, but even though she hasn’t been as afraid of him lately, he still doesn’t think she’d react well to him asking personal questions. Whatever is bothering her is probably his fault, anyway.

He did send Fisher’s list out with a few patrols, at least. Hopefully they’ll have found everything on it by today.

A shoulder bumping into his arm breaks him out of his reverie. Billie is giving him a look. “Wake up, old man,” she teases before pinning something new to the board. “Tynan’s back.” She nods her head back at the redheaded Whaler.

Daud glances over his shoulder only to confirm Tynan is paying attention. “What do you have?”

“Each cell has two or three copies of the key that opens it,” Tynan reports as he steps up to the board. “There’s a master set kept up in the Warden’s office, but goin’ after those’ll put us in the heart of the prison and two ticks shy of surrounded.” His expression is neutral, belying his dislike for this job. He thinks the whole thing is too risky, but Tynan is nothing if not a professional. “Our best bet is to find who’s got the key on ‘em and take it. Only problem’ll be figurin’ out who that is the day of.”

“We could time it with an interrogation,” Billie says. “Whoever puts Attano back will have to have his key on him.”

“Burrows does make a trip every two weeks,” Tynan agrees. “You might have to carry ‘im out, though, Boss.”

Billie tries and fails not to smirk. “All things considered, that might not be such a bad idea. He’ll be less likely to cause problems.”

“Less likely to try to kill me on sight, you mean.”

She shrugs and quirks an eyebrow. “Am I wrong?” When Tynan snorts, she gives Daud a shit-eating grin that he returns with a half-hearted glare.

“Focus,” he grumbles. “Are there any other regular times where the cells are opened?”

“Not Attano’s. Prisoners in solitary don’t get yard time.” Tynan makes a bit of a face. “Even we ain’t this harsh, and they have the nerve to call  _ us _ monsters.”

Daud has to agree. The Lord Protector has been imprisoned for nearly four months, four times as long as their most long-term prisoner. Even then, they’d allowed the man out of his cell to move around some and hadn’t tortured him at regular intervals. Then again, they hadn’t been trying to get anything out of him. That Attano has held out for so long either speaks to his resilience or the ineffectiveness of Burrows’ interrogator. Hopefully it's a combination of the two.

“How hard is it to track the key after interrogations?” he asks.

“I’ve tried. Unfortunately, they use little serial numbers to keep ‘em straight. I can’t get close enough to see if my guesses are right.” Tynan huffs and adds with a grumble, “They could at least put a bit a’ paint on the handles or somethin’, make my job easier…”

Billie snickers.

“I’ve thought about stealin’ the key after an interrogation and just holdin’ onto it.”

“But?” prompts Daud.

“But,” Tynan continues, “they’d probably notice it was gone and change the locks on us.”

“What about making a mould?” Billie muses. “We could get a copy.”

As he considers that, Tynan digs in his pocket for a cigarette. “Could. I’d need a pickpocket, though.”

“What, you can’t handle that?”

“Who’s it who likes to complain about me bein’ heavy handed?” he quips back at Billie.

“How were you planning on getting the key in the first place, then?!”

Tynan shrugs, putting the cigarette in his mouth and lighting it. “Kill ‘em. Or knock ‘em out, rather, I guess.” He glances at Daud for confirmation, shrugging when Daud nods. He’s ordered a moratorium on killing since the Tower. He just… It doesn’t feel like he can do it anymore. Luckily, the majority of the Whalers don’t seem to mind. They’re just as good at thievery and stealth to keep their coffers stocked. Besides, there have always been nobles out for information instead of blood, and even the ones looking for blood can sometimes be swayed. “But then that key’s burned as soon as someone finds the body.” Tynan inhales pensively. “Well. If I could borrow someone who can Tether, we might have somethin’ a bit less risky. Wouldn’t have to actually go inside. Maybe. I should be able to bend time long enough for them to lift it.”

“Take the key, copy it in clay, put the key back,” Daud says.

Billie nods. “Or drop it behind them like it fell off their belt.”

“It does happen.” Tynan smirks. “Frequently.”

It sounds like a decent plan to Daud. “Figure out who you’d want to take and run a shortlist by me. No novices.”

“‘Course, Boss. No one who can’t handle themselves.”

“When is Burrows next scheduled for a ‘visit’?”

Tynan leans forward to squint at the board. “...’Bout a week from today.”

“Get me that list by noon tomorrow. At the latest. Billie, what about--”

“Daud!”

The three of them turn from the board to see Quinn throwing open one of the sets of glass doors. Galia lands a transversal behind her and Daud jolts when he sees Emily cradled in her arms. He’s transversed across the room before Galia finishes setting her down.

“What’s wrong?” His eyes scan intently over Emily, checking for obvious signs of injury or illness. Why did they bring her here and not to Fisher? Especially when the infirmary is closer to their new apartment?

The princess fidgets under his scrutiny and she looks exhausted, but Daud can’t find anything wrong with her. Billie and Tynan walk over behind him. His second just crosses her arms and raises an eyebrow at the scene, but Tynan crouches down so he isn’t towering over Emily. For all his initial trepidation about helping her, the captain has certainly accepted her presence easily enough.

“You all right, Highness?” he asks.

“I’m  _ fine,” _ Emily mumbles. She rubs her upper arm and shrinks back a bit against Galia, but the Whaler nudges her forward.

“I need you to tell Daud exactly what you told us,” she says firmly before giving Daud a pleading look. “Please hear her out.”

He nods and waves for Tynan and Billie to back up a bit. “Tell me what’s wrong,” he tries to make his voice as gentle as he can, not that it’s much of an improvement.

She won’t meet his gaze, looking instead at what must suddenly be the most interesting set of floorboards she’s ever seen. Daud manages to catch her mumbled, “It’s nothing…” and Galia scoffs.

“It’s why she hasn’t been sleeping, and I  _ promise _ it’s something you need to hear,” she says desperately. “Emily, please tell him.”

“Em,” Quinn murmurs, reaching for the princess’s hand. “Please?”

Emily sighs. Still staring at the floor, she says, “I’ve been having...dreams, I guess. About a woman named Delilah.”

Daud is vaguely aware that Tynan’s cigarette has fallen out of his mouth as he stares at her dumbly. Even Billie is suddenly interested. But Daud just feels something unpleasant prickle up his spine. “For how long?”

She shrugs. “I’m not sure. A while.”

_ And you didn’t--!? _ Daud exhales slowly, trying to banish that train of thought. No, getting frustrated won’t help anything. There's no way she could have known. Once he’s certain he can keep his voice even, he asks, “What can you tell me about the dreams?”

“I've been hearing her voice. Sometimes I see things. Someone drawing, some paint, roses, vines that move on their own, stuff like that. She asks me questions and I've tried not answering, but I can't. Last night I saw her for the first time and she had something like the Whalers have for the Arcane Bond on the back of her hand.” Emily doesn't look at him the entire time she speaks. “Only, it looked more like a tattoo, and the lines were sharper.”

“Shit,” Tynan hisses the same time Billie groans, “Outsider's eyes…”

Oh he could absolutely  _ kill _ that black-eyed bastard. Daud yanks off the glove on his left hand and shows the Mark there to Emily, cursing inwardly when his sudden motion makes her flinch ever so slightly. “Like this?”

Her eyes go wide. “...Exactly like that,” she says slowly. She absentmindedly reaches out like she's going to touch his Mark before she snatches her hand back and finally looks Daud in the face. She realizes exactly what this is, what it means for her to have seen Delilah with the same marking. “All her questions were about me,” she answers Daud’s next question before he can ask it. “Like… About my favorite color, or what I’m afraid of, stuff like that.” She fidgets with the cuff of her long sleeve, eyes downcast again, and Daud has to bite back a snarl because it is abundantly clear just how afraid, shaken, and worn out Emily is.

Oh like  _ Void _ is he letting some second-rate Marked witch go after--

Daud disappears in a haze of ash and Void as he transverses up to the loft that is his personal space. He’s aware the Whalers and Emily are all staring at him as he rifles through his chest and bookshelf like a madman.

When he moves to a filing cabinet that has been partially converted to a dresser, Tynan calls up, “Boss? Whatcha doin’?”

“One second.” He can hear the faint song of the charm he’s looking for, finally remembers his Void Gaze, and finds it wrapped in a scarf he’d already tossed aside. As far as bone charms go, this one is small--carved from the tip of a whale’s incisor with the blunt end wrapped in braided copper wire so it can be worn on a necklace. Despite already knowing what it does, Daud still pauses to listen as it sings softly of protection; it will shield whoever wears it from curses or otherwise unfriendly magic. A long time ago, he’d kept it thinking it would prevent the Outsider from intruding on his dreams, and later (because of course it didn’t work against the bastard) to carry when he had to deal with witches.

“Here,” he transverses back down and holds the little charm out to Emily. It’s only about as large as one of her finger bones, hopefully it won’t get in her way. “Keep this with you at all times.”

Emily can’t hear the song it offers, but she reaches out to accept it anyway. While she examines the engravings, Daud explains that, “It will keep harmful magic away from you.”

The princess blinks up at him. “No more dreams?”

When he gets his hands on this witch… “None from Delilah, at least.” He hopes he isn't lying. “But tell me if you do.”

She nods at him, smiling with a great deal more relief than he would have expected.

Daud has Quinn and Galia take her to the infirmary. He wants to let her get a nap, but is reluctant for her to be alone after what she's just told him. When they go to leave, Quinn is already talking about finding something so Emily can wear the charm as a necklace and Daud makes a note to check in on the princess later, if she'll let him. As soon as they're out of earshot, Daud snatches a cigarette out of the pack in his pocket and summons the remaining captains for a meeting.

Delilah has just become a priority.

* * *

Emily doesn't dream of Delilah. In fact, for the first time in weeks, she dreams of nothing at all. When she wakes from her nap in the infirmary, she hears a pleasant murmuring rumble and rolls over to to find Daud speaking with Fisher so quietly she can barely make out their words.

“...hard to believe there's been no indication before.”

“She may be a new development.”

“Do you honestly think Burrows would--?”

“He hired me.”

Emily keeps her eyes closed but she can hear Fisher’s frown when he continues, “Bit of a stretch to be a coincidence, though.”

Daud grunts an assent. “It's not. The Outsider gave me her name for a reason.” He pauses. “Not a bad plan, hire a second Marked to go after the first one. But…”

“Why would she target Emily?”

“Exactly.”

She can feel their eyes on her and tries to focus on keeping her face slack and her breathing steady to keep pretending to sleep. It must work because Fisher asks, “What does she know?”

“What is there to tell her? She's the one who gave us the clue about Delilah.”

“You didn't mention you were already looking into the name?”

“It didn't seem relevant.”

“Well, it certainly is now.”

Another grunt from Daud.

“Are you going to keep her updated?”

“When I have something more than speculation, yes. She's involved.”

“Good. She's too bright to be treated with kid-gloves. How is…”

The comforting hum of their voices and her own rhythmic breathing are enough for Emily to doze off again. This time, she dreams of swirling blue almost-sky and whalesong.

* * *

Everything is in place.

Thomas is already at Coldridge, scouting out the place, making sure nothing changes, while Daud, Tynan, and Kieron prepare for the actual infiltration back at Rudshore. Daud leaves his usual red coat behind, just this once, and instead grabs one of the navy-blue ones the master Whalers wear, one without an armband. He actually instructs them all to leave off as many Whaler-identifying details they can; no armbands, no masks, and a different bandolier or coat if possible. Tynan has opted for some black coat that looks too new and fine to not be stolen, and Kieron has dredged a set of plainclothes out from somewhere. In them, he could be any laborer off the streets of Dunwall, albeit a rather tall one. To replace their masks, Tynan nicked them some of the half-face covers the Watch uses to protect their Dead Counters from the plague.

All together, they look decidedly patchwork. Good. Just in case, though, Daud tucks an extra sleep dart in his sleeve. He won't blame Attano if he wants to kill him on sight, but he would prefer to save that until after he's gotten Emily her father back.

Daud checks and rechecks his equipment. It’s been nearly five months of ridiculous distractions and roadblocks, but they’re finally ready. Everything is in place, they can finally move.

He feels Thomas tug at him through the Arcane Bond, signalling he’s finished his sweep and the others can begin making their way across Dunwall.

“All right, let’s--”

Suddenly Thomas  _ yanks _ at the Bond hard enough for starbursts to dance across Daud’s vision and he stumbles at the unexpectedness of it. The Whalers only pull so hard if they’re trying to get him to summon them.

Did something happen?

He clenches his fist and responds to Thomas with a pull of his own. Tynan and Kieron are staring at them both with no little trepidation when Thomas materializes in a haze of shadow and Void. Thomas holds his Whaler mask in his hands and his eyes are wide.

“Master Daud--”

“What’s wrong?” Daud is unable to keep the snap from his voice. Of course something would happen just as they were finally acting.

“Someone else has broken Lord Attano out of Coldridge.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *sings* and that's why he's called CLIFF HANGER! :D
> 
> Let me know what you think! If you'd like to scream at me for whatever reason, [here's my tumblr again](https://donotfeedthewildauthor.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Hope y'all enjoyed, we actually get to see Corvo next chapter :3


	6. In which Corvo escapes Coldridge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo, I missed my deadline last week. And the week before. In my defense, I had to work on my thesis proposal. Hopefully a somewhat longer than usual chapter will suffice. Please excuse my abuse of horizontal line breaks lol
> 
> Thank you, as always, to everyone who reads and comments and has left kudos, you guys are super awesome <3
> 
> (Also I have ideas so this might become a trilogy???)

Coldridge will not break him.

The litany is what keeps Corvo sane for five long months of whatever Burrows and his “interrogator” (no amount of dressing up the title changes the fact that the man is torturing Corvo, plain and simple) can think to throw at him. He repeats it to himself over and over, trying to clamp down on screams as they find new ways to make him hurt. It would be so easy to make it stop, to just sign the damned confession so Burrows can finally kill him, but he can’t. It would mean he’s truly failed Jessamine. If he signs it, no one will search for her real killer and the bastard will never see justice. They may never find Emily.

He has no idea where Burrows has hidden her, only that it  _ is _ him who’s responsible and that she  _ is _ still alive. It’s the only thing that makes any sense. Burrows is always announced as “the Lord Regent” when he arrives for what he calls his “conversations” with Corvo, and he always asks (in a loud, clear voice so that others outside the door can hear) where he has hidden the princess. If Emily were dead, Burrows would benefit more from producing a body than keeping her hidden. He would have no reason to continue this charade of looking for her and questioning Corvo.

Emily has to be alive. He promised Jessamine.

Sitting on the slab of concrete that passes for a bed in the solitary confinement cells, Corvo leans his head into his hands. It's been maybe a week since the last interrogation and everything aches. His scars have scars at this point, and he can't twist his torso much or risk ripping open the latest additions to his collection. Burns, mostly, since Burrows realized the hot poker was what got the most reaction out of Corvo. He supposes he should be grateful that he's allowed just enough medical attention to keep from getting an infection or bleeding out. It wouldn't do to have the “Lord Regent's” favorite punching bag die before his execution, oh no. 

Bastard. Traitorous, lying, snake of a man! Corvo’s fingers wind tightly in his matted hair. Jessamine had trusted Burrows. How had he not seen this coming? It is--was, he thinks darkly--his job to anticipate all threats. He was… He was  _ right there _ , and he  _ still _ hadn't been able to do anything. Maybe--

No. Corvo shakes his head as if the thoughts will fall out of his ears if he tries hard enough. Getting caught in that cycle of thought won't help anything. Not like there’s much he can do that will.

Coldridge  _ will not _ break him.

By the time Corvo lifts his head, the muscles in his back and neck protest even at his slow movement and he winces. His cell has a slip of a window, just enough to give him a view of the execution yard and let a stripe of moonlight through. Coldridge has locked down for the night, the announcements are no longer blaring every few seconds and the brightest of the hall lights are out. Shuffling and shouting from a handful of prisoners echos against the concrete walls, but the sounds are far enough away for Corvo to easily ignore them. This is the closest he comes to peace these days, and it's almost pleasant. He closes his eyes and zones out to the sound of his own breathing, trying to ignore the cold and the pain in his limbs.

_ “My dear Corvo.” _

He startles at the sudden voice from the darkness. He can make out the silhouette of a man standing just outside the bars of his cell, arms folded neatly behind him. With his heavy coat and stock-straight spine, Corvo almost mistakes him for a guard. If it wasn't for the way he addresses him, he might have.

_ “What a sad hand fate has dealt you,” _ the man sighs, stepping closer. One hand lightly encircles a bar and it's so pale that it practically glows in the low light.  _ “The beloved Empress is dead, her precious daughter is lost somewhere in the city, and everyone thinks all of it is your fault.” _

Months ago, Corvo might have snarled at that. Now, he just glares at the wall of his cell, too physically and emotionally exhausted to protest his innocence. He's heard worse. Everyone who could feasibly find the opportunity to jeer at him has done so. It's surprising, then, that the man adds with an audible grin, _ “But  _ we  _ know what really happened, don’t we?” _

Corvo stares at him, mentally scrambling for some kind of response, but between one blink and the next, the man disappears in a haze of darkness. Before Corvo can begin to question whether or not he dreamed him up, his voice startles him again.

_ “You don’t want to end your life to the sound of  _ idiots _ cheering as your head hits the muck, do you?” _ Somehow, he’s reappeared beside Corvo,  _ in _ his cell, sitting on the edge of the concrete slab about a foot away from the former Royal Protector. It isn’t until the man looks hard at him as if awaiting a response that Corvo realizes that his eyes are completely black.

The Outsider.

The deity hums in acknowledgement as if Corvo has said his name aloud, reaching to pick Corvo’s left hand off his lap. Corvo is surprised when he lets him turn it over, like he’s examining it. Distantly, he notes that the Outsider’s hands are stone cold.

_ “Well?” _ he prompts.

Oh.

“No.” Corvo grimaces at the sound of his voice, rough and rasping from too little water and only really using it to scream for the past five months.

_ “I didn’t think so.”  _ The Outsider sounds smug as he returns Corvo's hand to where it had been resting on his lap.  _ “Let’s see if we can do  _ better _. Shall we?” _

Corvo can’t help the sardonic look he gives at the locked cell door, but surprisingly, the Outsider chuckles, the corners of his mouth quirking up.

_ “I can’t let you out, I’m afraid,”  _ he says,  _ “but someone else will. Let’s see if you’re as interesting as I think you’ll be once they do. Two days.” _ He lightly taps the back of Corvo’s left hand with a sharp finger.  _ “I might have something to offer you then.” _

When Corvo looks up to respond, the Outsider has already vanished, leaving behind only dark smoke and a smell of ozone and sea salt.

Corvo frowns into the darkness, eyes straining for anything that can tell him whether or not the conversation actually happened. Maybe he's finally broken after all? He snorts at the thought.

The very possibly imaginary Outsider had said someone would let him out of his cell in two days. Well, waiting and watching won't hurt anything, he thinks. It's not like he has anything better to do.

* * *

The announcements blaring over the loudspeakers used to be what woke Corvo in the mornings. Now, they've faded into the background hum of the prison. He barely even notices them anymore. This morning, however, when he is on edge for any slight disturbance, his eyes shoot open at the first crackle.

_ “Attention. The solitary wing is off-limits to maintenance crews, unless accompanied by an officer of the Watch. Escort through the solitary wing must be scheduled in advance, with one week's notice.” _

It’s been two days since the Outsider spoke to him. Since he thinks the Outsider spoke to him, rather. In all likelihood, he’s just gone crazy. Still, every time someone walks by his cell, Corvo stiffens and looks up expectantly. There aren’t many guards in the solitary wing, so it takes longer than he’d like for him to tamp down on the reflex. By the time someone actually does approach his cell door, Corvo manages to restrict himself to glancing at them out of the corner of his eye. The officer (Thorpe, he thinks?) sets a tray with a hunk of bread down at the rectangular opening to the left of the cell door.

“You should eat, Corvo,” Thorpe says quietly, and the address makes Corvo lift his head fully. “This meal comes from a friend.”

Corvo waits until the officer has walked away before getting up. The bread is rock hard, but he picks it up anyway. He isn’t sure whether Coldridge has stopped remembering to feed all its prisoners regularly since Burrows’ rise to power or if he’s a special case, but he’s only fed once a day if he’s lucky. There isn’t room for him to be picky.

Under the bread is a folded note and a key.

Corvo blinks blankly for a moment before his brain processes what’s happening and he palms the objects. Even though no one is patrolling the hall outside his cell door, he still brings them and the bread away from it to examine them by his bed. He thinks he recognizes the key, but unfolds the note with shaking hands before he allows himself to fully form the thought.

_ Corvo, _

_ Who we are is irrelevant right now. Just know that we have faith in you. _

_ Here is the key to your cell. Once you're out, head for the prison's Interrogation Room. Take the explosive from the safe there and plant it on the outer door. When the bomb goes off, run. Make for the river and lose yourself in the sewers. You'll find some useful gear stashed there. _ _  
_

_ One of the prison guards will leave a weapon just outside your cell. _

_ And good luck. We need you alive and well for what's to come. _

_ \- A friend _

The words don’t fully sink in until he’s read the note three times. For good measure, he reads it again. It doesn’t seem real, even with the Outsider’s forewarning.

It’s been five long months.

His mind works fast. He remembers the layout of the prison from his inspections as the Royal Protector; finding the interrogation room and the front door won’t be an issue. The problem will be getting there without being seen. But if he moves slowly, quietly, and removes a few guards from play, it should be possible.

“Should” being the operative word.

He spins the key in his fingers and eyes the hallway. No one is actively patrolling the solitary wing; the only guard is posted at the entrance. On the table directly across the hall from his cell, Corvo spies a City Watch sword and a handful of coins. That’s step one, then. Well, step two; he still doesn’t know if this key will actually work.

He looks at the door. One way to find out.

* * *

 

The canal is absolutely freezing. It’s all Corvo can do to keep from inhaling in shock while his head is still submerged. He knows he shouldn’t surface until he’s reached the shore, but he doesn’t think he has the endurance to hold his breath that long anymore. When he comes up to gasp for air, he can hear the alarm over the frantic shouting of confused guards that had no idea anything was happening until Corvo blew open the outer door.

If he wasn’t currently running--make that swimming--for his life, he might have been smug about it.

By the time he hears gunshots starting to go off, Corvo is scrambling out of the water towards the sewer entrance. The effects of five months imprisonment are already making themselves painfully noticeable as his muscles and wounds protest when he doesn’t stop to catch his breath. The pistols the Watch uses may be inaccurate at a distance, but it would only take one lucky shot to put an end to Corvo’s escape. Even when he’s ducked into the narrow tunnel under the bridge, he doesn’t slow down. He vaults himself over the large pipes, barrels through the door leading to the sewers, and only stops when he hits a locked gate.

Swearing under his breath, he looks around, forcing his breath even to quiet the thrum of adrenaline and his own pulse in his ears. There’s a gap between a metal grating and the actual brick ceiling of the sewers that’s plenty tall enough for Corvo to fit. It’s conveniently located next to a stack of crates he can climb, and he moves to do just that when he notices a note pinned at eye level:

_ Corvo, if you're reading this it means our plan worked and you've broken free from Coldridge. One of our contacts has hidden supplies for you somewhere deeper in the sewers. Grab the gear and find Samuel where these tunnels dump into the river. He will bring you to us. _

_ \- A Friend Who Will Meet You Soon _

Conveniently located crates indeed.

The handwriting is the same as the note Thorpe slipped him; neat and measured with military-straight lines. Whoever it belongs to is clearly well-connected if they’ve managed to pull this off, and Corvo would be lying if he said he wasn't impressed. If they weren’t ostensibly on his side, the reach of this conspiracy (honestly, what else could he call it?) would be concerning.

Voices echo down from the far end of the hall and Corvo stuffs the note into the pocket of his ruined trousers before clambering up the crates and onto the metal grating.

“...some kind of explosive to blast his way out. That kind of thing doesn’t happen by accident.”

“You think he had  _ help? _ Who’d know how to do that?”

The guards have already made it into the sewers after him. Great. Corvo moves quietly and carefully through the small space, testing his footing before he puts any weight down. He can’t afford to let the rusting metal creak or squeal with guards directly under him.

Their chatter continues and Corvo only pays half attention until there’s screaming. When he looks down, a horde of rats is swarming over the two guards, biting and squeaking furiously. All he can see of the two men are wildly flailing limbs until their cries stop. The rats shift to cover them completely for a moment before dispersing, only leaving behind steaming red skeletons.

By the Void… He’s heard about rat swarms in the city that hang around dark alleys and abandoned apartments, picking any unfortunate dead clean to the bone in seconds. Some reports claim they follow Weepers around, that they can smell death on them and know it's only a matter of time before they get a meal. What he hasn’t heard of are those swarms attacking healthy people. How bad has the city gotten in the past few months?

Corvo shakes himself to clear his head. He can’t afford to be distracted right now, and there’s nothing he can do for the dead guards. 

As he continues, he finds more and more signs that Dunwall is collapsing. There are at least a dozen bodies strewn throughout the tunnels, some wrapped in the shrouds used for the plague-dead, but others that are forgotten and untended, rotting where they died. Graffiti over the walls depicts skulls and macabre assertions that “rats are eating our babies” or “you cannot kill the rat plague.” In a few places, there are tripwires rigged to incendiary bolts. Corvo only trips one before he notices them, but his tattered shirt and already abused upper arm are singed from the explosion. He’s able to avoid the brunt of it, but he has to take a minute to collect himself and dab the area with a bit of Sokolov’s elixir he found. His entire body is protesting, but every time he thinks he can stop to catch his breath, he hears either more guards or the loudspeakers outside announcing his escape.

It feels like hours before he finally finds the crate his mysterious allies have left him. As he heaves himself up a ledge, silently grumbling about how they could have at least provided him a map or something rather than assuming he’d be able to find his way through the winding tunnels (and what is it supposed to mean, that they left him supplies “somewhere deeper in the sewers?” what kind of directions are those?), he finds himself face-to-face with what looks like a suitcase. It’s in too good of shape to have been left in the humid air of the sewers for long. Corvo finishes pulling himself up, ignoring the pain from what is probably another healing wound he’s stretched too far, and finds another note in now familiar handwriting pinned to the front of it.

_ Greetings, Corvo. Or should I say Lord Protector, as you were known before that title was wrongfully taken from you. _

_ We are servants of the Empire and of the true Empress, a group of loyalists who want very much to meet you. Take these supplies and meet with our man, Samuel, near where these tunnels spill into Wrenhaven River. _

_ All haste and luck. We share a common purpose. _

Inside the suitcase is another City Watch sword and a pistol with extra rounds. Both are in better condition than the ones he took from the prison, so he switches for the new ones. Below the weapons are a plain set of blessedly clean clothes (complete with boots), some bandages, a vial of elixir, and a canteen of water. Corvo strips out of the filthy, soaked, and tattered rags he’d worn in Coldridge and tosses them unceremoniously aside. Part of him would prefer to bathe first, but that will have to wait. That same part fusses about how he wraps his wounds without washing them first, but he downed nearly half the canteen as soon as he found it. If he hasn’t gotten an infection yet, he imagines he can survive a couple more hours. He does at least try damping a bandage and using it to remove the worst of the filth from his more vulnerable injuries before treating them with a bit of elixir and wrapping them up. By the time he’s done, Corvo is more comfortable than he’s been in months.

The entire time he’s stopped, Corvo keeps an ear out for any sounds, but the ones he does hear don’t come close enough to make him worry. As anxious as he is about not moving, it’s hard not to acknowledge how much he needed to stop. He attaches his remaining supplies to his new belt and continues on his search for Samuel. Assuming, of course, he hasn’t written him off for dead and left.

More guards have found their way into the sewers, but they aren't especially committed to their search. The lower guards pace back and forth, giving a cursory look at their surroundings, while their officer appears more interested in leaning against a railing, smoking, and staring at the water, in that order. If their incompetence wasn't helping him escape, Corvo would likely be frustrated. How many times had he tried as Royal Protector to institute more stringent training protocols for the Watch? As it is, Corvo is able to easily slip past them.

Gradually, the air becomes less thick with humidity and decay. Corvo nearly breaks out into a run when he actually feels a slight breeze, but he quashes the impulse and continues to creep forward until he can actually see the tunnel opening up. Instinct also has him reaching for his pistol when he hears a low voice.

“Corvo? Corvo, is that you?”

An old man with wild grey hair and sideburns to match stands by a little dinghy pushed up onto the sand, calling for Corvo in a stage whisper. He catches sight of him and waves an arm.

“It’s me, Samuel. I’m a friend.”

Corvo releases his grip on the pistol and cautiously continues forward, still tense and unsure.

Samuel, however, has none of his ambivalence. “It’s good to see you. You know, they said you’d come out here, but I can still hardly believe it,” he says with a bit of a smile. “But we’d better get out of here, sir. Won’t be long before the Watch finds us.”

Corvo has newfound doubt about the competency of the Watch, but he nods anyway and tries for something resembling a smile. He climbs into the little boat when Samuel gestures towards it and sits on the far end while he pushes it into the water and climbs in himself to start the engine.

“You’re safe now, we’re going towards the quarantine. No one’s out that’ll see us.”

Corvo nods again, but doesn’t relax entirely, keeping his shoulders hunched up.

“I work for some good people, they’re anxious to meet you.”

“Who are they?” Corvo still hates the sound of his voice, but maybe use will improve it.

For his part, Samuel doesn’t seem bothered by the raspiness. “They call themselves the Loyalists, sir. We’re led by Admiral Havelock, Overseer Martin, and Lord Pendleton.” He must notice how Corvo’s expression shifts at the mention of the final name because Samuel adds quickly, “The younger brother, Lord Treavor Pendleton.”

He hasn’t met the younger Pendleton, but Corvo is all too familiar with his older brothers. The twins usually opposed anything Jessamine brought to Parliament on principle. When they showed up to Court, they were uniquely trying. What rumors Corvo has heard about them are similarly negative (some bordering on downright awful). Those of the younger brother are unflattering, but in the sense that he is of weak constitution and rather useless overall. Given a choice between him or the twins, Corvo supposes he would take dealing with Treavor.

The name of the Overseer doesn’t ring any bells, but that’s hardly surprising. All but the highest ranking members always wear their masks in public. This Martin could potentially be any of the Overseers who flanked Campbell when he came to the Tower to speak with Jessamine. Corvo barely ever paid them any mind; they were nothing more than silent sentinels behind Campbell’s chair, much like Corvo was behind Jessamine’s.

Admiral Havelock, however, is a name Corvo knows. He led the navy for years under Jessamine after he climbed up the ranks. Corvo’s never actually spoken with him, but he was present during some of the Admiral’s meetings with Jessamine. He’s ambitious, yes, but honorable. Even so, it’s surprising he isn’t following Burrows.

Samuel maneuvers the little boat easily and doesn’t seem bothered by Corvo’s silence. Periodically, he fills the gap with his own thoughts, and Corvo is content to listen. Five months is a long time to be removed from the world.

“We’re based out in the Old Port District,” he explains. “The whole place has been quarantined on account of the plague, but we can get in and out by boat easily enough. We’re right on the river. The Admiral used to run the Hound Pits Pub, so when he brought the rest of us in on this, we started staying there. We’re right under the Lord Regent’s nose and he don’t know a thing.”

Corvo can’t help but grin at that.

The pub comes into view and Corvo realizes with a small twinge that he can see the Tower on the other side of the river. He pushes the thought away as Samuel steers towards the shore.

“If you give me a moment to tie her down, I can introduce you to Admiral Havelock and the others,” he says as he and Corvo disembark. He clearly expects Corvo to step back and just watch as he tethers the boat because he blinks when Corvo instead reaches out to help him with the rope. “Oh. Thank you.”

After the dinghy is secured (Corvo can see the name  _ Amaranth _ written neatly on its side now that he’s at a better angle), Samuel leads him up the sloped embankment to the main building. When he opens the door, Corvo can hear voices.

“...waited? The Lord Regent will be tearing the entire city apart to look for him, we won’t have time--”

“We’ve already discussed this, Pendleton.”

“There was simply no telling whether or not we’d be  _ able _ to get him out if we’d waited. The Regent’s been weeding his way through Parliament and the Watch, and the High Overseer has been doing the same with the Abbey. We would soon have lost the opportunity.”

“But we’re not--”

Samuel clears his throat and the three men look up from where they were huddled together at the end of the bar.

“Ah! The man of the hour!” A brick wall of a man in military dress that Corvo recognizes as Admiral Havelock steps forward, arms thrown wide in greeting. “Welcome, Lord Protector! We’re pleased to see you managed to make it out in one piece!” He doesn’t wait for Corvo to respond before continuing, “I am Admiral Havelock, the leader of our little group and a true servant of the Empire, like you. Until the Lord Regent purged those of us who wouldn’t recognize his claim to the throne, that is.”

A second man, much thinner and dressed finely steps forward with a slight bow. “And I am Lord Treavor Pendleton. I represent the nobility in this partnership, but we’re all as equals here at the Hound Pits Pub.”

Somehow, Corvo doubts that.

“And this,” Havelock gestures towards the third man who hasn’t stood up from his stool, “is our brilliant strategist, Overseer Teague Martin.”

“Just Martin is fine,” the Overseer says. He’s wearing the uniform of the Abbey, but his mask is on the bar. “A pleasure to meet you, Lord Protector.”

Corvo only has the chance to nod in acknowledgement before Havelock launches into a speech Corvo barely pays attention to. The adrenaline is wearing off completely and it’s all he can do to pretend to listen. Havelock doesn’t seem to notice (or care, really), but Martin watches him with shrewd eyes while the Admiral carries on.

“Farley,” he finally says, interrupting Havelock mid-sentence, “don’t you think Corvo would rather hear all this after he’s had a chance to bathe and sleep?”

Havelock stops and finally sees Corvo and how he’s practically swaying on his feet. “Oh. Yes. Good idea, Martin. We can discuss this later, after you’ve had a chance to rest. You must be exhausted.” Again not waiting for Corvo’s response, he calls for a servant who introduces herself as Lydia to help get him settled.

* * *

When Corvo finally,  _ finally _ gets into bed, he’s asleep almost as soon as his head hits the pillow. Unfortunately, his eyes almost immediately open again. Confused as to why he suddenly no longer feels tired, Corvo rolls over and aggressively pulls the covers up higher.

Several minutes later, he hears something that sounds strangely like a whale.

That doesn’t make sense, why would a whaling trawler be this close?

It bothers him enough to (reluctantly) get up, but when he opens the door of the attic bedroom Lydia showed him to, he has to do a double-take.

This isn't the Hound Pits.

The landing has been blown away and debris floats lazily through the air. It almost looks like he's outside, but he's never seen clouds that were blue nor ones that  _ swirled _ like that. Another drone of whalesong sounds, deep enough to vibrate the boards under Corvo's bare feet, and he sees one of the beasts literally  _ fly _ past the ruined wall.

“What in the Void…?”

Corvo stops the thought right there.

Oh.

That would explain a lot, actually.

There’s a stone staircase leading out from one of the ruined landing walls and Corvo begins to climb, trying not to think about how it’s the same architectural style as Dunwall Tower. It leads to an open courtyard with an iron archway flying the Kaldwin colors. Beyond it, Corvo can see the gazebo and his chest tightens when he realizes this is the first time he’s seen it since…

A shimmering distortion of darkness forms in front of him, distracting him and leading him to take a reflexive step backwards. The shadows coalesce into a solid shape and Corvo is once again facing the Outsider.

_ “Hello again, Corvo.” _

The deity smiles and Corvo is struck by how young he looks. It’s strange to think that the Abbey hasn’t capitalized on the fact that their greatest adversary looks like an actual literal  _ child _ . He doesn’t look older than sixteen.

The Outsider’s smile widens at Corvo and what he assumes is his expression of dumb shock.  _ “When I spoke to you before, you were at a crossroads of fate. I could see one path clearly, but the other was less a path and more an unpredictable web of potentials. I’m very pleased to see the latter is the one you’ve settled on.” _

“Happy to be of service,” Corvo responds flatly before he realizes that maybe it might not be a good idea to sass the god of the Void.

Instead of smiting him, the Outsider chuckles and disappears in a haze of shadow that’s quickly becoming familiar only to reappear within touching distance of Corvo.  _ “You are more interesting than anyone I’ve seen in a long time,” _ he says absently, reaching again for Corvo’s left hand.  _ “But what do you say we keep it that way?” _

“How?” Corvo asks warily.

The Outsider is still smiling at him.  _ “There are forces in this world and beyond it, great forces men call ‘magic.’ They can be made to serve your will, if you accept my Mark.”  _ He looks up from where he’s absentmindedly tracing unseen lines over the back of Corvo’s hand with his thumb, forcing him to meet his gaze. He did say he might have something to offer Corvo when they met again, didn’t he?  _ “Well?” _

“What’s the price if I do?” Corvo may not be particularly devout, but he’d be a fool if he didn’t at least think about the Abbey’s warnings about the Outsider.

_ “Consider it a gift. All I ask is that you continue to be fascinating.” _

“And what do you consider to be ‘fascinating,’ exactly?”

The Outsider chuckles again.  _ “You’ve done well so far without trying.” _

Corvo narrows his eyes at him a little, unsure what to think. That wasn’t a very straight answer. But he thinks of Emily, of everything standing between her and safety. If he’s going to do this, rescue her and put her on the throne that should be hers, he’s going to need every advantage he can get.

“Fine. I accept.”

The Outsider’s responding grin is something predatory.  _ “Wonderful.” _ He lets go of Corvo’s hand as a light begins to shine from the back of it. Corvo hisses because it feels like something is burning him from the inside-out. When the glow fades, an ink-black brand is left behind.

_ “In the days that follow, your trials will be great,” _ the Outsider continues. _ “Seek runes bearing my Mark in the lonely places of your world and at shrines raised in my name. These runes will help grow your powers. To help you find them I give you this: the Heart of a living thing, molded by my hands.”  _ He holds out his hand and in the same haze that heralds his own arrival there appears an approximately fist-sized human heart stuck all over with wire and a little glass window in the front that reveals copper gears inside. It’s gruesome, but Corvo reaches out to take it.

_ “With this Heart, you can hear the secrets of those around you, and it will guide you toward my runes and charms, no matter how they may be hidden. Use it and your new powers to find a rune.” _

The Outsider disappears again, but this time does not immediately reappear. The Heart beats periodically in his hand, but when he holds it out in front of him it practically wriggles and the little glass window glows. He supposes that it means for him to walk forward. He slips it into a pocket and starts forward towards the gazebo.

The scene that greets him almost makes him physically ill. Jessamine is lying on the ground, pale and in the middle of a pool of her own blood. He’s seen it so many times in his nightmares, but never this real. When he bends to touch her cheek, there’s no give to her skin. It’s like she’s made of stone.

“Jess…” he murmurs. It isn’t her, but it looks just like her. If he ignores the blood and the color of her skin, she could almost be sleeping.

The Heart in his pocket gives a hollow beat against his chest and he almost swears he can hear Jessamine’s voice murmur,  _ “I’m so cold…” _

Corvo swallows hard and instead turns his attention to the piece of paper Jessamine had dropped shortly before everything happened. Despite lying directly in the blood, it doesn’t seem to have a drop on it. Corvo picks it up, but drops it again when he sees that the writing on it has changed.

_ “YOU CANNOT SAVE HER. YOU CANNOT SAVE HER. YOU CANNOT SAVE HER. YOU CANNOT SAVE HER. YOU CANNOT SAVE HER.” _

Over and over again.

Suddenly he wants nothing more than to hold Jessamine’s body and cry like he never had the chance to do. There’s a lump in his throat and his eyes sting, but Corvo pushes the swell of emotion back down. No, there...there will be a time and a place for mourning. This isn’t it. This isn’t her. One day he’ll have his chance to be alone with Jessamine in the imperial crypt where she’s no doubt interred, but he’ll have to wait. Until then, he needs to be strong and keep it together for Emily.

Knowing that doesn’t make it any easier to turn away from Jessamine’s lifeless body a second time.

Corvo walks as far as he can to the edge of the gazebo, but the next island of floating walkway is too far for him to reach, even if he jumps. The Mark on the back of his left hand tingles and he clenches it reflexively. The Void around him smears into blue light and suddenly he’s over the gap and feeling like he’s just been kicked in the stomach. After he catches his breath, he sees another little island about the same distance away as the first. This time, he’s prepared for the sensation and is actually able to aim where he wants to land.

After a few more tries, Corvo feels like he’s gotten these things (he’s tentatively calling them “Blinks”) down pat. He Blinks quickly from island to island, occasionally passing more tableaus like Burrows in a war room, sneering down at a map of Dunwall, or a ruined street where a tallboy is shooting down a pair of fleeing Weepers. Corvo turns away from them angry, but otherwise they give him little pause. He comes to another, what looks like part of some ramshackle apartment with two girls sitting on a bed together playing a card game. He doesn’t recognize the one girl, a teenager with long, curly blonde hair, but he freezes when he looks at the other.

Emily.

Her face is a little more tanned from being outside and she’s dressed in unfamiliar hand-me-downs that are a couple sizes too big, but it’s definitely her. A cry rises from his throat before he can quash it and he circles the figure of his daughter, inspecting her closely. She looks...good. She’s healthy and fed and the clothes she’s wearing are clean and warm. Her hair has gotten longer, it’s enough to pull back in a short ponytail, and her smile reaches her eyes like she’s been frozen mid-giggle. Corvo can hardly bear to look away, but he does to search the room for clues as to where she is. There’s nothing distinct about the furniture, but there’s a set of coats on hooks in the corner that look vaguely familiar. Two are a matching grey and the one that stands out to him is dark blue with a black armband, he just can’t place where he’s seen it before. When he tries to pick them up to get a better look, they won’t budge. Eventually, with a final glance back at Emily, he turns away and Blinks to the next island.

While he moves through the Void, the rhythm of the Heart in his pocket gets progressively faster. He assumes that means he’s getting closer to the Outsider’s rune because as he’s nearing the last island it’s practically jumping out of his pocket. Ahead is a construct that’s an unmistakable shrine to the Outsider. It’s assembled from driftwood, held together by wire, and draped in rich, purple fabric that billows out behind it. Little whale oil lamps float in the air around it and more surround it on the ground, all of them glowing an otherworldly purple. On the little table is a single circular rune carved from a flat piece of whalebone. Corvo could swear he hears it singing wordlessly to him as he reaches to pick it up, and he’s almost (not quite) surprised when it turns to ash at his touch.

He smells ozone and sea salt and sees shadows flux out of the corner of his eye, but does not turn around to face the Outsider as he appears.  _ “With each rune you collect, your powers will grow,” _ he explains.  _ “But how you use them falls upon you, as it has to the others before you.” _

“Were those scenes real?” Corvo asks before turning around.

The Outsider tilts his head a little.  _ “The Void conjures images from your own surroundings and mind,” _ he says unhelpfully.

Corvo glares at him. “Was what I saw with Emily  _ real?” _ he demands.

Before the Outsider can speak, Jessamine’s voice whispers,  _ “She has found friends she trusts, despite her circumstances.” _

Corvo freezes.

The Heart in his pocket quivers dully against his chest.  _ “This place is the end of all things, and the beginning,” _ it murmurs.  _ “I am a part of it now, dead but...not.” _

The Outsider watches him silently as Corvo struggles to process this. The Outsider said it was the heart of a living thing, but he didn’t… Oh, Jess…

_ “What you saw was as real as anything else in the Void,” _ the Outsider says, voice softer. Corvo looks up at him. He isn’t smiling, but the expression is no longer completely impassive.

Corvo nods, taking that as confirmation.

The Outsider’s impassivity returns and he folds his hands behind his back.  _ “I will return you to your world, but know that I will be watching with great interest.” _

Before he can respond, Corvo's vision goes black.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Emily's response to the Void: Oh wow...  
> Corvo's response: What the fuck???  
> To be fair, the poor man just wants to sleep xD And the sarcasm started early on and I couldn't turn it off, whoops.
> 
> Apologies if there's any typos, I got tired of working on this so I only read it through a couple times.
> 
> This week's chapter has been brought to you by: [my tumblr](https://donotfeedthewildauthor.tumblr.com/)


	7. In which plans are altered

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The semester started up today, so updates might be a little sporadic for a while. Sorry, but I hope everyone will stick around! :D
> 
> Somewhat shorter chapter this time, but the last one was a little extra long, so...
> 
> Thanks to everyone for reading, you're awesome! :D

“They gave him a  _ bomb?” _

“Yes, sir,” is all Thomas can say.

Daud sighs, holding his head in one hand. This is what they wanted, but… Outsider’s eyes, this is not the way it was supposed to go.

“Clearly,” he begins, slowly looking up, “whoever helped him cares more about style than self-preservation.” If Daud had actually been able to have his way, no one would have known Attano was gone until they checked on him. They would have been long gone by then, leaving only a locked, empty cell. It's a miracle Attano hadn't been shot jumping from the bridge. Daud purses his lips together when he realizes he can't actually rule that out.

Tynan gives an unabashed snicker from behind Thomas, who has to bite the inside of his lip himself.

“It was effective, though,” Kieron points out, clearly trying to remain positive.

“We don't know that yet.” It's entirely possible that Attano is still down in the sewers, dead or close to it from injuries sustained during his hair-brained rescue.

“The announcements say he's still at large,” Thomas offers.

“That could just as easily mean they haven't found a body yet.”

Tynan’s grin drops as Kieron and Thomas share an anxious look.

“How do you want us to handle this, sir?” Kieron asks.

Daud straightens. “Kieron, take a couple people with you and search the sewer system that connects to Coldridge. Tynan, repurpose some sentries and check the waterways, anywhere those sewers open. Look for any sign of Attano. We need to know if he made it out of there alive.”

“If he’s not?”

He doesn't want to picture Emily's grief, but he has to. “Bring his body back if you can, but don't get yourselves killed.”

Kieron nods, seeming to understand. Emily deserves the chance to see her father again, even if it is just to bury him.

“Do… Should we tell Emily?” Thomas asks quietly after Kieron and Tynan have transversed away.

“Not yet,” Daud says, perhaps too quickly. “Not until after they finish searching.” What would be worse? To give her false hope or unnecessary grief? He’s not sure, but he doesn’t want to go to her until they know for sure.

“I'm not sure we can keep this from her. Everyone will be talking about it.”

Daud grimaces and stares hard at the target board while he thinks. “Intercept Galia, tell her and Quinn to keep the princess in their apartment for now.”

“What should I have them tell her is the reason?”

“Leave it up to them to decide, they know her better. We don't need to scare her.” They don’t  _ want _ to scare her.

Thomas nods and transverses away, leaving Daud alone.

He doesn’t stay that way for long. Galia and Quinn appear about thirty minutes later as he’s pouring over plans of the Old Dunwall Sewers.

“You were supposed to be watching the princess,” he snipes.

“She’s with Fisher,” Galia says, walking over to look at the map. “What happened?”

“Is Lord Attano all right?” asks Quinn. Of course she sounds genuinely concerned, and probably not just because Emily is her friend.

“What do you mean she’s with Fisher?”

“We told her there were some training exercises we had to do, so she would have some lessons with Fisher and help him out until we’re done,” Galia replies. “She doesn’t suspect anything. What happened and how can we help?”

Daud still huffs, but doesn’t press the issue further. He can trust Fisher to exercise some discretion and to promptly shut down anyone talking about something they shouldn’t. “Early this morning, someone blasted open Coldridge’s outer door using some kind of explosive device and jumped into the canal. Attano’s cell was empty and guards were dispatched into the sewers after him. I sent Kieron and Tynan to search both within the sewers and where they open, but we don’t know if this is a rescue or a recovery at this point.”

“Was he injured?”

“We don’t know. Some guards saw him jump into the canal and tried to shoot him, but as far as we know the Watch hasn’t recovered a body.”

The sisters exchange looks and Quinn repeats one of Galia’s earlier questions, “How can we help?”

Originally, Daud would have said they could help by keeping an eye on Emily. Since they’ve clearly found a way to wiggle out of that, though… “See if you can meet up with one of the search teams. Tynan is leading the search of where the sewers open into the river and Kieron has the inside of the old sewer system. But both are probably crawling with City Watch, so be careful.”

They both nod before transversing away. Daud is pleasantly surprised that Galia looks to be allowing Quinn to participate in this. He has no doubt the younger Fleet is capable, she’s small and stealthy, no one ever sees her, but he thinks sometimes Galia still sees her as the sickly child she used to be. Not that he can really blame her, he supposes.

The day is a whir of activity as Daud coordinates search efforts. He goes through a pack of cigarettes and nearly wears a hole in the floor from his pacing. What he wants is to be out in the city himself, but that isn’t where he’s needed right now. It’s still frustrating not being able to do anything but wait until someone comes back.

All the while, he considers what he should say to Emily.

It’s early evening when the very exhausted Kieron and Tynan return to his office. “We’ve looked  _ everywhere, _ there’s no sign a’ him,” Tynan sighs, slumping into a chair by the desk. He fishes a cigarette out of a pocket and reaches for Daud’s lighter, ignoring his frown.

“My teams had somewhat better luck,” Kieron says. “We found an empty suitcase and a pile of discarded rags. It appears he had help.”

“No shit.”

Kieron gives Tynan a frown. “I mean continued help.”

“Was there anything else?” Daud asks.

“Yes. A Watch sword and an empty one of their pistols along with a couple pieces of paper. Two were soaked and ruined, but the third was still legible.” He takes it from a pocket and hands it over to Daud, who thinks he does a very admirable job of not snapping at his captain for not leading with this.

His first instinct is to frown at the too-neat handwriting, but the expression turns more severe when he actually reads it. “‘A group of loyalists…’” he reads. Oh Void, don’t tell him… Tynan gets up to look at the note as well and Daud hands it over to him. “Where did you find this?”

“Tucked up in one of the higher tunnels leading straight from Coldridge. It didn’t look like the Watch had been in there. They probably don’t know about it,” Kieron reports.

“‘Course not,” Tynan mutters.

“We followed the tunnel out to the river, but the tide was up by the time any of us got there.”

“Show me where.” Daud gestures towards the map of the sewers. Kieron examines it closely before he points to a spot. “Tynan?”

“Hm? Oh.” He looks at it. “Oh, shit, yeah. We were there while the tide was still low. There weren’t any boot prints, but Dodge found cigarette butts.”

“Probably where this ‘Samuel’ was waiting for him,” muses Kieron.

Daud nods. “What did you do with the evidence you found?”

“I took care of it.”

“Good.” No matter how incompetent the Watch is, who knows what they could eventually put together given enough breadcrumbs. “Anything else?” When both captains respond in the negative, he nods. “Dismissed, then. We can come up with our next step tomorrow.”

After he talks to Emily.

Void…

* * *

There are only three people in Fisher’s office when Daud arrives; Emily, Connor, and the physician himself. They're camped around Fisher’s desk, eating dinner Connor must have picked up from the dining hall, and look up when he enters.

“Daud,” Fisher acknowledges, looking admirably unconcerned. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I wanted to talk to Lady Emily, if I may.”

Connor sits up a bit straighter. “Would you like me to leave, Master?” His grey novice coat is folded neatly over the back of his chair.

“You can stay,” Emily responds before Daud can say that it’s up to her. She looks back at Daud and gives him a small smile. She’s been much freer with those since he gave her the bone charm, and while he’s pleased she doesn’t seem scared of him anymore, he isn’t sure what to make of her acting genuinely friendly. “What is it?”

He takes a breath before responding. “It’s about Lord Attano.”

Her posture shifts from relaxed to stiff in an instant. “What is it? You’re almost ready to go get him, right?”

“...Yes.” He winces internally when Emily narrows her eyes at his hesitation. “We were actually preparing to get him this morning.”

She pales and looks scared for half a second before she plasters on what he’s come to call her imperial mask, jaw set firmly and eyes stern. “What’s changed?”

Fisher is giving him a wary look warning him to choose whatever words he has carefully, and Connor fidgets, eyes locked on Emily like he’s waiting for a signal that she needs comfort. Daud knows she’s bracing herself for the news that her remaining family has died and whatever words he’d prepared slip from his mind. Fine, blunt it is.

“We don’t think he’s dead,” Emily’s posture relaxes somewhat even as Fisher gives Daud a strangled glare, “but we don’t know where he is.”

“What do you mean you don’t know where he is?” she demands.

“Someone else helped him escape from Coldridge. We found evidence that he made it into the sewers and that someone met him by the river, but we don’t know where he’s gone.”

Surprising everyone, Emily breathes a sigh of relief. “Then he’s okay?” She doesn’t bother trying to hide how hopeful she is, and Daud finds himself wishing he could lie and tell her what she wants to hear.

“We can’t be certain,” is what he says instead. He has to be realistic; he can’t give her false hope.

“But he’s out of Coldridge?” she presses.

“Yes.”

“And he isn’t dead?”

“There wasn’t anything to suggest he is.”

“Then he got away,” Emily says firmly, “and he’s okay. I know he is.”

Her optimism shouldn’t make him feel guilty, but it’s born from her not knowing how Burrows has been torturing the Lord Protector. He’s never quite figured out what she knows about Coldridge, and he hasn’t asked because he doesn’t want to be the one to tell her. She likely doesn’t know her father has been steadily deteriorating over the past few months. Yes, Attano escaped almost two weeks since Burrows last visit, but based on what Daud had been reading in Tynan’s reports, that wasn’t enough time for him to fully recover anymore. There’s no telling what kind of condition he’s in after the escape, and Daud doubts whoever has him now will bring him to a doctor. There are so few left with the plague ravaging the city, and many of those that remain have been cooperating with Burrows in one way or another.

“Of course, your highness,” is all Daud can think to say.

Emily, however, clearly knows he’s trying to appease her and makes a face. “You don’t think he’s okay, do you?”

All three men wince at the direct question, and Daud can feel Fisher glaring at him again. “I don’t know,” he says carefully. “Lord Attano was… Five months is a long time to spend in Coldridge.” And whose fault is that?

He expects the same sentiment from Emily, and her shoulders do indeed droop and her expression sombers, but she doesn’t glare at Daud like he’s expecting. “I see,” she says quietly. She chews on the inside of her lip as she considers him. He’d never have expected the scrutiny of a child would ever make him uncomfortable. Then again, he never expected to be assisting a child-empress.

“Will you still look for him?” she asks.

Daud is perhaps a little too quick to respond with his stern, “Of course.”

Emily’s entire face just lights up. Before he’s entirely processed what’s happening, she’s hopped up off her chair and caught him with her arms around his waist. Daud goes stiff as a board, holding his arms up so he doesn’t touch her, while Connor looks shocked and Fisher gives a pleased little smile.

“Thank you,” she murmurs.

Daud stares blankly at the top of her head, glancing up when he sees movement in his peripheral vision. Fisher is motioning for him to go ahead and do  _ something.  _  Unsure what he should do, he cautiously touches her shoulder. “You’re… You’re welcome…”

Emily releases him and gives him a small smile. Fisher rolls his eyes and shrugs as if to say, “Close enough,” while his son looks shell-shocked.  If Daud were a little less distracted, he might have glared at him.

He stares at Emily longer than is strictly necessary, unable to wrap his head around her actually hugging him. It doesn’t make sense, but he’s somehow...happy, he thinks?

Thankfully, Emily still has food on her plate and he can redirect. “You should finish eating,” he says. “I’ll keep you updated.”   


“Thank you.”

Daud just offers a terse nod before turning to leave.

* * *

There’s a meeting the next morning with Billie and the captains. Daud can’t assign too many resources to looking for the Lord Protector, but he needs them all on the same page. Once they’ve reached a consensus, the captains can talk to their squads about keeping a lookout while they’re on patrol. Dunwall is a big city and these “loyalists” could be hiding him anywhere. He lets Thomas describe the situation at Coldridge, then has Kieron and Tynan brief the others on what they found during their searches. The decision is made not to assign new patrols, but to modify the routes of the ones already in place. Dunwall is simply too big for them to search completely, even with half the city dead from plague.

When the meeting ends and the captains leave, Billie hangs back. Daud abruptly realizes how quiet she had been during the whole thing and turns to her when the office door shuts.

“What is it?”

Billie shifts, crosses, and uncrosses her arms before she responds. “I wanted to talk to you about the Delilah mission.”

“Have you found anything?” He put more people on the search after Emily told him about her dream, but Billie is still leading it. Luckily, the bone charm he gave the princess seems to be holding; Galia says she’s been sleeping normally again.

“No,” Billie huffs. “No, and that’s just it, no one’s found anything,  _ I _ haven’t found anything!” She gets louder as she speaks and starts pacing a little. Daud is a little taken aback by the sudden emotion. “Sure, there are plenty of rumors, but every time I follow-up on them, there’s nothing! It’s like she doesn’t exist!”

Daud grimaces. “We know she exists.” Nevermind Emily’s dream, he highly doubts the Outsider would be so petty as to have him chase after nothing.

She crosses her arms back. “Then it’s like chasing smoke,” she amends. “Except I’d actually be able to  _ find _ smoke, this…” Frustrated, she throws her arms up in the air.

“She’s out there somewhere.”

“Maybe. Who’s to say she’s even  _ in _ the city at this point?”

“I doubt she’ll go far if she’s after the princess.” 

Billie stops pacing and looks away, but not before Daud notices her lips pursed into a thin line. He gives her a moment to speak her mind, and when she doesn’t says, “Out with it.”

She bristles, opens her mouth, then closes it as her shoulders deflate. “...I’m not sure this is a good idea.”

Daud folds his arms across his chest. “What isn’t?”

Billie gestures vaguely at the target board where their information about the Royal Protector and what little they have on Delilah is pinned. Daud is almost surprised it’s taken them this long to have this conversation. She must have been holding onto all this for months.

“What are we even doing?” Billie sighs. “We’re  _ assassins. _ This... _ thing _ we’re doing now, it doesn’t make sense. Burrows paid us enough for that last job to smuggle all of us out of Dunwall, or for us to just lie low until the plague blows over.” Even Billie, angry and abrasive as she is, knows not to mention the Empress directly. “It’s not even that we didn’t take the extra money to kill the girl, I can understand that, but we aren’t even taking assassination jobs anymore. We’re investing most of our resources on jobs--” she gestures again to the target board “--we aren’t getting paid for. We’ve made ourselves targets for Burrows and Campbell and now you’re chasing after someone who’s Marked by the Outsider…” Billie’s expression is almost pained.

“What’s going to happen if this all goes sideways? We can defend against Overseers and the City Watch, maybe even both of them together, but we don’t know what Delilah is capable of. What if she can do the same things we can?”

“We don’t know what her powers are.” It's pointless to get hung up on “what-ifs,” he's told them, and it doesn't matter that right now he can't seem to take his own advice. Billie doesn't need to know.

“And we won’t because we can’t get close to her!” Billie’s shouting now, but it doesn’t appear she realizes it. “What if she has the Arcane Bond? How can we  _ possibly _ defend against that? If she’s really after the girl, she’s going to come after us.  _ All  _ of us! I will not…!” She stops abruptly and her expression flickers to something he remembers from the first time he met her.

Daud feels oddly subdued. He’s gone through this same argument in his head countless times. It’s all he can do to just barely keep himself propped up and going down the track he’s set them on. He should be angry at Billie for bringing all this up, for challenging his decisions, but he’s too tired of it all.

“Billie,” he says quietly, and he’s vaguely reminded of a much younger version of himself screaming at his mother only for her to respond with soft disappointment, “you’re right. I’m asking you all to take a lot of risks.” His thoughts drift to the Outsider’s warning. “There will be consequences, I’m sure. Something is coming for me, but none of you deserve any of it. I won’t let it come after you all.”

Daud hopes his expression looks more resolute and less tired than he feels. The fact of the matter is, he does deserve whatever retribution is coming, be it in the form of Delilah or Corvo Attano. His men might have done horrible things, but only because he asked them to.

Whatever vulnerability he saw on Billie’s face has vanished. She may as well be wearing her mask for all that he can read her expression now. “You can’t possibly promise that,” she says quietly. She looks away. “No matter what the others may think, you and I both know you’re not invincible, Daud.” Before he can respond, Billie’s form vanishes in a cloud of ash and she transverses away.

Daud sighs. It’s far too early for whiskey, so he lights a cigarette and leans against the wall to stare at the target board, feeling like his insides have been scoured with a coarse brush. Something tells him he’ll hear about this from Billie again.

Maybe then he'll have something better to tell her.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Daud.exe has stopped working. Please restart the program and try again.
> 
> I'm changing Billie a little bit here, but I think this makes her motivations a bit more relateable? Maybe?
> 
> This chapter has been brought to you by: [my tumblr](https://donotfeedthewildauthor.tumblr.com/)


	8. In which the Loyalists are a mess

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wheeee, update! :D
> 
> I just wanted to give a shout-out to SeptemberSky who's been super awesome about helping me word things and letting me bounce ideas off her. She writes "The Potential Merits of Criminal Organizations" and it's awesome and Corvo and Daud are already *talking* in hers xD
> 
> Thank you to everyone for reading! :D

For the briefest moment after he wakes, Corvo has no idea where he is. What he does know is that he’s been awakened by someone opening the door to his room followed by the light pressure of them placing something on the foot of his bed. Without stopping to think that there could be a completely harmless explanation, Corvo grabs the pistol he left nearby and sits up in one somewhat uncoordinated motion, aiming before he can even see clearly.

“Sorry! I’m so sorry!” A small woman is standing at the foot of his bed, clutching a bundle to her chest. Her eyes are wide under the brim of her newsboy cap and fixed on the gun, terrified. “I’m sorry, I should have knocked, I didn’t want to wake you!”

Corvo has to mentally talk himself through the process of relaxing his arm and lowering the weapon (he’s safe, it’s all right, no one is going to hurt him). “It’s… You’re okay,” he rasps, setting it back down on the bedside table. “I’m sorry. Are you all right?”

The woman looks like she’s about ready to faint. “Y-yes, sir. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have come in without knocking!”

“You’re okay,” Corvo repeats, getting up slowly so he doesn’t scare her more by moving suddenly. “I overreacted, it’s my fault. You surprised me.” Her face lights up with alarm again, but before she can apologize again, Corvo calmly reiterates, “You’re okay, really.”

Her expression is doubtful, but she nods.

“What’s your name?”

“Cecelia, sir. Oh!” She adjusts the bundle she’s clutched to her chest and holds it out to Corvo. “I was to bring these up to you, sir. The Admiral had them made.”

Corvo takes the bundle and blinks when he finally gets a good look at it. It’s a stack of neatly folded, dark colored clothing. On top is a heavy coat of dark navy with gold buttons and detailing around the seams. He unconsciously runs his fingers along the embroidery, struck by how similar it looks to his old Royal Protector coat. That’s probably the point, he muses wryly, but it’s still a gesture he wasn’t expecting. He’ll have to thank the Admiral when he sees him. Assuming, of course, he can get a word in this time.

“Oh!”

Corvo raises an eyebrow at Cecelia, but she isn’t quite looking at him. He follows her gaze down and startles at the black lines branded into the back of his left hand.

Oh is right.

She's clearly seen it already, there's no point in trying to hide it from her now. All Corvo can do is mentally scramble for some innocuous way to explain the Outsider's Mark that doesn't send her running directly to Overseer Martin. Void, he’s only just escaped torture, why didn’t he think this through--

“Do you want some gloves as well, sir?” Cecelia’s careful voice cuts through Corvo's rising panic. To her credit, she doesn't blink at the stunned look he responds with. “Your hand,” she says instead. “It looks like it's healing at least, but a wound like that will probably leave a noticeable scar. I can see if I can track down a pair of gloves for you, if you'd like.”

It's a moment before Corvo can compose himself enough to answer. “...Yes, please. Thank you.”

She gives him a shy smile. “There are some bandages in the dresser if you'd like to dress it before you come downstairs. Lydia is making breakfast, and the Admiral and Overseer Martin would like to speak to you once you're ready.”

Something quivers in the breast pocket of his nightshirt.  _ “The common woman. She is quiet and the others think her simple, but she notices more than they realize,”  _ whispers the eerie echo of Jessamine in the back of his mind.

He puts a hand on the pocket and swallows. So he hadn’t imagined that part. All right, good to know.

“I think I will. Thank you.” He manages an almost genuine smile for Cecelia before she turns to leave.

Corvo washes his face in the basin set on a small vanity in the corner of the attic room, pausing when he catches sight of his reflection in the mirror. He almost doesn’t recognize himself; his face is too thin, his eyes are too hollow, and his skin is too pale. Frowning, he shakes his head and turns his attention instead to shaving off the beard he’s grown. What was he expecting? He’s not going to shake off five months’ imprisonment after one night of sleep.

When he finishes, he reexamines his reflection, checking in the mirror for spots he missed. It’s a relief to be clean-shaven again; it almost makes him feel like his normal self. The fact that he doesn’t look like a castaway anymore is a bonus. He walks away from the vanity and returns to where he left the stack of clothes on his bed, starting to unbutton his nightshirt, but stops when his hand brushes against the Heart in his pocket.

_ “Not so long ago, Dunwall was a proud city,”  _ it says.

Her voice is ethereal and her affect is flat in a way that is unfamiliar, but Corvo would recognize Jessamine’s voice anywhere. He only hesitates a moment before bringing the Heart out of his pocket where he can see it in the light of day. It’s still horribly grotesque with its wires and glass window revealing an internal clockwork mechanism of some kind, but now he can see there’s copper stitching up one of the sides. When he runs his thumb over it, the Heart quivers and its--her, this is still Jess--window glows.

“Jessamine?”

The Heart’s window glows brighter, as if in recognition.  _ “The name of...the late Empress,”  _ she says, and it shouldn’t be a comfort but the way her words catch on the brief pause is the first real indication he’s had that this actually  _ is _ Jessamine, not just some soulless mimicry of her voice. It should be horrific, but Corvo can only find it in himself to be selfishly content to have her back.

He holds her close to his chest for a moment before setting her down on his pillow so he can dress, but stops when he removes his shirt. Lifting his arms doesn’t hurt anymore. Hang on…  _ Nothing _ hurts anymore, actually, what…? He undoes the bandages wrapped around his torso and turns his back to the mirror. To his surprise, the poorly healing wounds he struggled with just yesterday look months older than they should. The freshest have been smoothed over with new, pink skin, and even the older scars have began to fade. The deep weariness that had soaked into his muscles after his escape is gone, replaced by something resembling his former strength. As he stares in confusion, the Mark on the back of his left hand gives a strange, soundless hum.

Well, then. This is an interesting, if unintended, side effect.

The bundle Cecelia left contains two full sets of clothes. They’re all as finely made as the coat, but were clearly tailored for a man who hadn’t been half-starved for five months. Maybe he can borrow a needle and some thread from Lydia later? Nothing fancy or permanent, just a few tacked stitches here and there to make the clothes fit a little better. For now, he can make due by tucking the shirt into his trousers, cinching the strap on the back of his waistcoat tighter, holding the trousers up with the belt, and hiding the somewhat rumpled overall effect under the coat. It’s the Month of Darkness, nearly the Month of High Cold, so it isn’t ridiculous for him to be wearing it. Gristol has always been too cold for him, anyway.

Corvo wraps his left hand in bandages as Cecelia suggested. He doubts anyone will notice that it wasn’t wrapped yesterday, but for all they know he could have injured it after he already left the bandages behind. Worst case? He’ll say he fumbled the straight razor, though he’d rather things not come to that. It would be embarrassing to admit, even if it isn’t true.

The only thing left that’s bothering him is his Void-damned  _ hair. _ It’s gotten longer than he would normally allow and he’ll definitely need to find some scissors later, but that doesn’t help him get it out of his face right  _ now.  _ For a moment, he’s tempted to use one of the bandages he apparently won’t be needing anymore as a hair ribbon, but he decides against it. Best he not draw attention to his miraculously speedy recovery. Instead, he searches the vanity, bedside table, and writing desk for something else he can use to pull it back. It quickly becomes clear that he’s lucky someone even thought to give him a comb because there’s absolutely nothing useful besides a fucking pencil. Fine, he can work with this. He wraps the end of his hair around the pencil, twists it into a bun, and holds it in place by sticking the pencil through the knot he’s made. His first few attempts fall apart as soon as he’s taken his hand away (he  _ knows _ he saw Jess do this a thousand times, dammit, he should be able to get it right) but it finally stays put on the fourth try. It isn’t as neat as she would manage, but Corvo is sufficiently pleased. He pauses to put the Heart in the breast pocket of his waistcoat before he finally leaves his room to follow the smell of warm food and coffee.

Everyone is in the main room of the bar where he met the “Loyalists” last night. Lydia is set up on a whale oil stovetop behind the counter and only two booths at opposite sides of the room are occupied. The one furthest from Corvo has Havelock, Martin, and Pendleton. They’re all three hunched over the table, having what appears to be a very intense discussion over their half-touched plates. Samuel and Cecelia are sitting in the closer booth along with a well put-together woman Corvo almost swears he’s seen before. She’s gesturing subtly as she tells a story to Cecelia’s rapt attention and Samuel’s occasional nods.

“Good morning!” Lydia says sunnily when she catches sight of Corvo lingering in the doorway. “Cecelia said you’d probably be down in a minute. I should have something ready for you in a moment, go ahead and have a seat. I’ll bring it over. Do you drink coffee?” When he nods, she points an elbow towards a carafe warming on the edge of the stove. “I’ll let you make it how you like it. There’s cream and sugar if you want either, mugs are on the counter.”

When she turns her attention back to the stove, Corvo fetches one of the well-worn mugs and pours himself a portion of coffee. Stars, it smells wonderful. When he sips it, it’s not as strong as he’d prefer, but he’s long come to terms with the fact that he won’t get Serkonan-strength coffee in Gristol unless he brews it himself. He adds a small amount of sugar (Jess used to tease him, saying he likes coffee that’s been just close enough to the sugar bowl to scare it, and he nearly startles at the little beat the Heart gives against his chest when he remembers this) before turning to look at the heated discussion on the other side of the room. If the Admiral was looking for him, he really should go speak to him right away, but the memory of last night’s interaction makes Corvo feel suddenly tired. He’d really rather not deal with that again until after he’s had a full cup of coffee.

“Best not to bother them, sir,” Samuel says. “If you interrupt them now, you’ll never escape. They’ve been at it for a while yet, I don’t think they’ll notice if you don’t speak to them right away.” He gives a good-natured smile that’s at odds with the glint in his eye as he takes a drink of coffee.

If this is a regular thing, Corvo definitely needs a full cup of coffee first. He takes another sip from his mug and glances around before nodding towards the bench Samuel is sitting in the middle of. “May I?”

Samuel blinks, but doesn’t let more of his surprise show than that. “Of course, sir, by all means.” He picks up his coffee and plate to slide further into the booth to give Corvo room to join them. “We’ll be happy to have you.”

Corvo nods in acknowledgement, offering the women on the other side of the table a small smile. The one he doesn’t know returns it graciously with one of her own, and Cecelia dips her head in a nervous nod. It doesn’t escape his notice when her eyes flick down to the bandage on his left hand and she relaxes slightly.

“Lord Attano, it’s good to finally meet you, I’m Callista Curnow.” She offers a hand across the table for Corvo to shake politely.

_ That’s _ why she looks familiar. She looks so much like Geoff Curnow, she could easily pass for a younger sister rather than his niece. “Miss Curnow. Your uncle speaks very highly of you.”

Callista is visibly surprised. “Oh! You know him?”

He nods and takes a drink of coffee, sensing he won’t be able to leave his response at that. “When I would work with the Watch, he was usually the person I interacted with,” he explains. “He's a good man.”

“Thank you,” she says, smiling shyly. “He… He tries to do the right thing, even with all the chaos these days. I'm proud of him.”

“Here you are, love.” Lydia appears with a bowl of porridge and plate of toast, settling them in front of Corvo before he can respond to Callista. “I wasn't sure you'd be up to the kinds of things Lord Pendleton asks for. I thought you might be better off with something simpler.”

Just the brief thought of anything heavy, rich, or grease-laden is enough to make Corvo vaguely nauseous. He manages to repress a shudder as he gives Lydia what he hopes is a grateful look. “I appreciate it, thank you.”

He must be successful because Lydia visibly preens. “Of course. There’s more if you want it, but be careful not to eat too much too fast or you’ll hurt yourself.”

Corvo nods. Somehow, he manages not to jump when the Heart gives a little thump against his chest.  _ “She irritates the other servants with her domineering, but it is borne from genuine care,”  _ she says.

Lydia watches him for a moment before she’s satisfied either by him liking the food or not immediately inhaling it. She goes back to turn off the stove and pick up her own plate and coffee cup. Callista and Cecelia look at each other briefly before pressing closer together and to the wall to allow Lydia space to sit. Cecelia glances at Callista, clearly trying to be subtle, and tugs down on the brim of her hat to hide her faint responding blush.

Corvo picks up his coffee cup to hide his reflexive smirk. He doesn’t need the Heart to tell him what that’s about.

“I don’t know why I’m bothering to sit down, Wallace and that Natural Philosopher will probably walk in in about five minutes,” Lydia sighs, idly stirring her cream-colored coffee. “Though I’m tempted to just tell Wallace to make his own damn food…”

“You should,” says Callista, and Cecelia nods a little beside her. Corvo notes that they both appear to be drinking tea. “You’ve been cooking all morning.”

Lydia hums as she sips her coffee. “He makes a mess of everything, though. The cleaning up after almost isn’t worth it.”

“I can always help if you’d like,” Samuel says, gesturing with his half-empty cup of black coffee. “Just might need a bit of direction.”

“Aren’t you sweet?” Lydia chuckles. She starts to say something else, but a loud  _ CLANG _ from outside makes her and everyone else at the table jump. Corvo only just manages not to reach for a weapon, forcing himself to grip the handle of his mug tighter instead. “Stars above, but I am refusing to touch whatever  _ that _ was!”

Corvo cranes over to try to see what’s going on, but the windows are tinted and fogged so that they only let through light, not anything actually useful. Samuel sees his frown and explains, “The Admiral had me pick up a fellow who used to be a member of the Academy this morning. He got Wallace, Lord Pendleton’s manservant, to help him set up his workshop.”

“Used to?”

“I don’t know anything about it,” Samuel shrugs, unbothered, “but he evidently got expelled a while back. His name’s Piero Joplin.”

The name is familiar, but Corvo can’t remember anything about the man it’s attached to. He just nods and turns his attention back to his breakfast as the others do the same. Most of the conversation is driven by Lydia and Callista with only periodic comments from Samuel or Cecelia, allowing Corvo to remain mostly silent as he listens and considers the people he’s allied himself with. He still needs to meet Piero and Wallace, but so far he likes the Loyalists’ leadership the least of the lot.

On the other side of the bar, those leaders are still arguing. It takes Corvo entirely too long to stop twitching every time Havelock punctuates a statement by pounding a fist on the table or Pendleton starts actually shouting. Martin is quick to bring their collective volume down to a more normal level, however, so Corvo is only able to catch little snippets of conversation here and there. It’s only when he gets up to refill his coffee that he’s actually able to catch onto what they’re saying.

“If we don’t remove Sokolov, he’ll just keep making those damned weapons until there’s a Wall of Light or arc pylon between every street--”

“There already  _ are,”  _ Martin interrupts Havelock without looking up. He’s leaning his forehead against his bridged fingers and his mask is sitting on the table, turned so that it almost looks like it's sneering at the other men at the table. “You'd know that if you'd bother to at least  _ pretend _ to be going about your normal life.”

Havelock opens his mouth to shout. but is interrupted by Pendleton simpering, “Burrows draws all his power from Parliament. If we want to destabilize him we must--"

“We can't take out an entire voting block!” Havelock snaps.

“We would only need to remove a few strategic leaders--"

“I guarantee you won't like how we would have to go about it,” says Martin. He finally looks up and continues, “If we target Campbell, we can easily take control of half of Dunwall and have access to his blackmail material to boot--"

“Of course  _ you _ would want to go after the Abbey first.”

“And why not? Take control of a major power and remove one of Burrows’ most useful allies in one fell swoop? That must be the worst idea I've ever heard, thank you for helping me see the error of my ways.”

“If we go after the weapons--"

“Will you  _ shut up _ about the Void-damned weapons?!”

“I will as soon as  _ you  _ get your head out of the bottle and do something about your miserable brothers!”

“We don't know for certain they're in Burrows’ pocket!”

Havelock slams his fist down on the table again and Martin looks dumbfounded. “Like Void we don't!”

“It's the only possibility that makes any sense!”

“Well it's not like they're terribly bright--"

“You're not terribly bright!”

As soon as it's clear the argument has devolved into childish name-calling, Corvo turns back to his seat. Samuel notices him return with his lips pursed in a thin line and says, “Everything all right?”

Corvo nods and casts a glance back at the other table. “Are they always like that?”

“Sometimes. They’ll sort themselves out in a minute,” Samuel says with a shrug.

Corvo sighs through his nose and sips at his coffee. That isn’t exactly a comforting thought.

Shortly after Lydia finishes eating, a middle-aged man wearing common clothes and an upper-class sneer enters from outside. “Lydia!” he calls, not looking up from adjusting his clothes. “Master Joplin hasn’t received his breakfast, what is taking so long?”

That must be Wallace.

Lydia scrunches her shoulders down so Wallace can’t see her and covers her face with her hand. “Outsider’s eyes... “

“Lydia!”

“I’m coming, I’m coming!” Lydia grumbles as she slides out of the booth. As she walks away, Corvo thinks he hears her mutter, “Keep your shirt on…”

Samuel was right; the arguing from the other side of the room does subside eventually, falling back to quiet muttering that Corvo can’t catch. Wallace’s entrance seems to remind the three Loyalists that there are others in the room because when he follows Lydia back to the kitchenette (berating her all the while) Corvo hears the others stand from the booth.

“Have you seen Corvo?” The Admiral asks Lydia as she goes back and forth to gather her cooking supplies (Wallace is, unhelpfully, still talking). “We’d like to speak with him before Martin leaves.”

Lydia pauses with a huff, her arms full with a heavy sack of coffee beans, and inclines her head to where Corvo is still seated beside Samuel, casually sipping his coffee. He doesn’t miss the quick, confused once-over Havelock gives him, or how his eyes narrow slightly at how Corvo’s managed to pull back his hair. In fact, Corvo makes a point of maintaining direct eye contact as he finishes his coffee.

“Good morning,” he says curtly, hoping that Martin isn’t the only one who realizes that Corvo overheard them arguing like schoolboys. He sets the coffee mug down so his hands are free to lift himself out of the booth.

Before Corvo has finished stacking his dishes to bring over to the sink, Lydia looks over her shoulder from the stove and says, “Oh, just leave those there, hon. I’ll get them in a minute.” When Corvo just raises his eyebrows to ask if she’s sure, she turns back to her frying pan and waves him off to confirm that yes, she is sure, thank you.

“Yes, good morning!” Havelock responds as if Lydia hadn’t said anything. “You look like you’re feeling much better after a good night’s rest.”

Corvo has to stop himself from fidgeting with the bandage covering his left hand. “Much better, yes.”

“Excellent!” says Havelock, stepping forward to pat a massive hand on Corvo’s shoulder. Martin is looking him over with a critical eye while Pendleton still looks surprised to see him up and about. “Let’s go discuss our situation. I’m sure you have questions.” He pulls back from Corvo and starts towards the stairs, inclining his head to indicate he intends Corvo to follow him, which he does, along with Martin and Pendleton.

“I’ll just come right out and say it,” the Admiral says as he leads them through the door to a room with green wallpaper and a display of what must be his naval medals hanging across from the door. (Martin, the last man through said door, shuts it behind him, and Corvo must clench his fist as he reminds himself where he is, that he’s safe, and that there’s no reason for the panic trying to bubble up. This isn’t the interrogation room, he isn’t strapped down, he isn’t in danger.) “We’ve been building a coalition of loyalists, aimed at ending the Lord Regent’s tyranny and restoring the throne.”

Corvo edges further into the room to be closer to Havelock’s desk and one of the windows. Here he can keep the door in his line of vision and can have his back to the wall instead of one of the men. He crosses his arms and glances at everyone. Pendleton has sat down in a chair next to the desk, and Martin is leaning casually next to the doorframe while Havelock paces back and forth with his hands in parade rest. The door is just closed to, not completely shut, and the window behind Corvo is already unlocked, if he needs…

He bites the inside of his cheek hard to break himself out of that train of thought and force himself to pay attention.

“We’ve committed ourselves to finding Lady Emily Kaldwin and seeing her crowned as Empress,” Havelock continues, oblivious to Corvo’s distractedness. “We have big plans, but we need to destabilize the establishment that’s allowed Burrows to seize power in order to accomplish them. For that, we need your skills, your ability in a fight. None of us have the experience you do.” Surprisingly, Havelock actually pauses and looks to Corvo for a response.

“It sounds like you’re looking for an assassin.”

Havelock raises an eyebrow and exchanges a look with the other Loyalists.

“It won’t be as simple as removing Burrows from play,” Martin speaks up. “He wouldn’t be Lord Regent if he didn’t have people supporting him.”

Corvo manages not to give an exasperated sigh. “That isn’t an answer.”

Martin purses his lips and goes to respond, but Havelock cuts him off, saying, “No, it wasn’t.” He gathers himself up and clears his throat. “That is essentially what we’re asking, yes. It’s dark business, I’ll admit, but sometimes good men have to do bad things to make the world right. There’s just too much support for the Lord Regent amongst the powerful.”

“We suspect he may have had a hand in the Empress’ death,” says Pendleton, “but we have no proof other than how quickly he was appointed Lord Regent.”

“He did,” Corvo confirms.

Martin looks genuinely surprised. “Did he actually admit it to you?”

Corvo nods. “He’s the one hiding Lady Emily as well.”

“It’s good to know we’ve been on the right track, then.” Havelock sounds far more smug about it than he should. “But if we publicly accuse him at this point, with nothing to back up our claims, we’ll all be arrested for treason.”

“Not to mention the risk to her majesty,” adds Martin. “We cannot risk him harming her; she will be the only one who can confirm your innocence.”

Yes, because that’s the only reason why Corvo’s concerned about her wellbeing.

“Exactly,” Havelock agrees. “We have to hide and act in shadow until we are safe to confront the Lord Regent directly. To restore the Kaldwin line, we’ll have to chip away at his support, piece by piece.”

“To that end, we’ve been discussing strategy and targets now that you’ve escaped Coldridge,” Martin says. “Unfortunately, we’re not as far in those plans as we’d hoped. There have been...snags.”

“The Lord Regent’s methods have grown increasingly concerning over the past few months; so we had to put events in motion sooner than initially planned,” says Pendleton. The way he doesn’t quite look at Corvo suggests that by “events” he means Corvo’s rescue.

Havelock moves to his desk and starts shuffling through some papers, saying, “I’ve taken the liberty of commissioning Piero Joplin to make your equipment for you. He’s an odd one, even for a natural philosopher, but he’s as brilliant as Sokolov. Now where in the Void… Ah!” He manages to find the papers he’s looking for and holds them out to Corvo. “He’s given me some schematics, if you’d like to see them.”

Curious, Corvo takes the papers looks over them. There are labeled pencil drawings of armor that can be worn under normal clothes, footstep-dampening boots, and what appears to be a sword that folds in half. The drawings are impressive, but none give him pause until he reaches the last: an artistic sketch of a skull-like mask with a crooked stitched smile.

“What do you think?”

He knows he shouldn’t agree, to any of this. It isn’t right. The Heart twitches in his pocket and Corvo resists the impulse to put his hand over her to assure her that he knows Jessamine wouldn’t have wanted--doesn’t want?--Emily’s throne to be secured through subterfuge and murder. But the Loyalists are right: Burrows has too much support. What other way is there? Maybe...maybe just until he has Emily safe? He’ll go along with this plan up until that point, then he’ll find another way. There has to be another way.

So Corvo just nods like he agrees.

“Excellent!” The pat Havelock gives his shoulder is almost heavy enough to make him sway. “I  _ knew _ you'd be the right man for the job.”

There has to be another way...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Corvo staring down Havelock while he finishes his coffee with his hair in a pencil is a Look, honestly xD


	9. In which there is a witch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The most foreboding pun I've ever written xD
> 
> I finished my thesis proposal and passed its defense, buuuut now I have to write my actual thesis xP  
> It never ends lol
> 
> I'm kind of informally trying to do a version of NaNoWriMo this year, so hopefully I'll be able to update my stories a few times this month. As of posting time I have made it to 3,034 words xP
> 
> (Also thanks again to [SeptemberSky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeptemberSky/pseuds/SeptemberSky) for helping me continue to maintain the illusion that I actually understand human language and am not 50 rats in a trenchcoat xD)
> 
> Edit: Oh god, I forgot! Recommended listening for the chapter: ["A Sea of Solid Earth" by The Dear Hunter](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MqcuXb9ilrU)

As a general rule, Billie will trust rats over people. People are cruel and two-faced, and while animals are self-serving, they do so without a human's malice. Despite being almost entirely nonsensical, the rats never lie. That alone makes them better than most people. Even half-mad with plague, they're her best informants. So, when the trail on Delilah goes cold (again), Billie often finds herself as she is now: perched up on a crate or scaffold and tossing bits of spoiled food onto the ground in the hopes of attracting some. Dunwall is so close to being engulfed in one giant rat swarm that it's never long before the first few skitter out from the shadows.

Wouldn't that be something, for this Void-damned city to be swallowed up by rats? She would stand up on the clock tower and watch it writhe in its death throes, Deirdre's bone charm clutched tight to her chest. Maybe afterwards she'd finally leave, go someplace warm like Serkonos or green like Morley. Maybe she wouldn't even leave the ship, she used to dream of being a ship's captain after all. Maybe Daud actually has the right idea, leaving Dunwall when all this business with Delilah and the princess is settled. Maybe then she could become someone new.

Right now, though, she's still Billie Lurk, and she's supposed to be on a job.

Rats have congregated on the ground below her crate, chittering and squeaking as they fight over bits of stale bread. Billie throws a few more chunks into the mass before she takes out Deirdre's bone charm. “What can you tell me about Delilah, my little gutter friends?” she asks, more out of habit than any actual purpose. She points the modified charm at them and for a second it's like a floodgate has opened; dozens of voices slam into her mind in a cacophonous wave before the charm filters out and tames the noise into one familiar voice.

(There are times, when the grief becomes too much, when she isn't able to stand hearing Deirdre's voice like this, times she can't even carry the bone charm and even considers throwing it away entirely. But she keeps coming back to it, in the end, because she'd rather have a bastardization of Deirdre's memory than no token at all. How strong of her, right?)

_ “Food! Good food. Not blood or meat, but still good. Fills our bellies.” _

_ “The breadmaker’s cat hissed and bit and chased, but no more. There were too many of us to kill.” _

_ “Hounds chase us for their masked masters. Long teeth, long claws, they swallow us alive!” _

_ “Armies of us rule the streets, the sewers, everywhere! All fear us!” _

_ “The flower witch is back. She hunts our kin for her paints. Avoid!” _

The epithet sends a jolt down Billie's spine. Didn't the girl say she saw Delilah wearing roses? Billie grips her bone charm harder as she sits forward and tries to single out the rat and press harder to make it give more details. This rarely does more than give her a headache, but Billie's been on this fruitless hunt for months now, and this is the closest to an actual lead she's gotten from the rats in all that time. She's willing to risk some discomfort.

_ “She twists our heads, wrings blood from our necks. Paints the walls to hum.” _

_ “Witch-hounds made from bone crush us and leave us to die. A warning?" _

_ “She guards with moving plants. Whip and ensnare. Kill us with thorns.” _

_ “The clothmaker is trapped, pinned to the wall. No room for struggling, he can only watch her work.” _

_ “The gardens by the river have died but for hers.” _

Pain forces Billie to pull back. She drops the bone charm on the crate beside her and holds her head in her hands like she's trying to keep her skull from falling to pieces.

“Fucking Void…” 

At least there aren't starbursts around everything when she opens her eyes. Good, it isn't a migraine this time, despite the fact that it feels like something is gnawing on her optic nerves from inside her head. It'll pass before too long.

In an effort to push out the pain, she focuses on what the rat told her. Delilah is nearby, somewhere with a clothmaker pinned to a wall that may or may not also be painted over with rat blood sigils. There may also be some kind of supernatural plants or hounds there with her. Okay, that's not…

Wait. Where is this alley?

Transversing up onto a roof tugs harshly at Billie's headache, but now she can see the distinctive glass roof of the shopping center in Drapers Ward off in the distance. Even with the district run-down and half abandoned, if she were to find a clothmaker anywhere in the city, it would be there. The Hatters have the mill up and running, maybe there? No, too many people. The entire gang is run out of there, nevermind the laborers they've been recruiting. Most of the shop fronts have been boarded up, but if someone could get in they'd have plenty of privacy.

Billie doesn't stop to consider whether or not she should go; this is her only lead and you can bet your ass she's going after it. After five fruitless months, she'll be damned if she lets this opportunity slip through her fingers. She digs through the pockets on her bandolier until she finds a vial of Sokolov’s elixir and lifts her mask a bit to down it. As much as she hates using them, avoiding magic won’t be feasible here. She needs the headache gone. Now.

She activates her Void Gaze when she’s on the roof of the shopping center. Besides some (disconcertingly large) piles of bodies in some of the boarded up shops and a couple Hatter lookouts, she doesn’t see anything out of place. Frowning, she expands her search to the shops lining the canal. A shop with two bodies makes her halt, practically holding her breath, until she sees them exchanging a parcel for a handful of coin. No, that’s not it. The next several shops are empty, empty, empty, and emp--

Wait.

In a second story corner shop, Billie can faintly see the glow from two silhouettes. One looks like it’s against the wall, about a foot up, and the other is sitting bent over like they’re working on something. She transverses around the building, looking for an angle where she can actually see the scene with her own eyes, and lands in the remains of an abandoned rooftop garden. Inside, a man is pinned to one wall like a portrait and the others are covered in the kind of bloody sigils Granny Rags is supposed to paint. There’s no one else in sight, but that doesn’t make sense; she saw two silhouettes. Where could they--?

The familiar scent of the Void is the only warning Billie gets, but it’s enough. She whirls around in time to parry a blow from a bone-colored blade and uses her attacker’s shock to force them back. If they’ve had any combat training, it’s nothing compared to Billie’s own because she’s able to easily pull the weapon from their hands. To keep them from transversing away (Outsider’s fucking balls, she  _ knew _ Delilah would have transversals, she just knew it!), she grabs the lapel of their blouse and shoves them against the ledge of the roof with her whaling knife at their throat, narrowly avoiding breaking terracotta planters as they fall.

“Don’t  _ fucking _ move,” she growls.

Her attacker is a woman who looks exactly like the one the princess described from her dream and the realization makes Billie grip her blade tighter while her heart absolutely hammers in her chest. Holy shit, she’s actually caught Delilah. After hunting her for so long off of so little, it feels surreal.

Delilah only looks shocked for the second it takes her to process what’s just happened. By the time she coughs in an effort to get back the air Billie knocked out of her lungs, she’s switched to something that’s entirely too close to smug for someone staring into the lenses of Billie’s mask.

“Oh, you must be one of Daud’s,” she purrs, casual as can be.

Billie snarls and presses her knife more firmly against Delilah’s throat. Her instincts are screaming for her to end this game here and now. It’s  _ been _ clear that Delilah is some kind of threat, it would be smarter to just kill her while Billie has the chance rather than bring her back to their base alive. She might be the biggest threat the Whalers have ever faced--she could have  _ killed _ Bille for Void’s sakes! It’s like every nightmare Billie’s had on the subject has come true but with one, singular chance to stop all of it from going wrong.

Only she can’t move the knife.

Daud’s lost his taste for killing and he’s ordered them all to stop taking assassination jobs. How many times has Billie blown him off and done what she thought was best, orders be damned? As his lieutenant, she’s lived by the philosophy that it’s better to ask for forgiveness than for permission. This time shouldn’t be any different, but for some reason she can’t shake the feeling that if she goes against him on this, Daud won’t forgive her.

She’s a fucking assassin, she’s supposed to be good at this.

The Mark on the back of Delilah’s hand glows, but Billie is too distracted by her own waffling to respond before Delilah lets loose a shriek that sends her flying backwards, ears ringing. Billie tries to stand, but Delilah’s Mark glows again and vines thick as ropes burst out from the empty planters to catch her wrists. They twist her arms at an awkward angle, forcing her to drop the whaling knife. She tries to pull back, to fight, but they’re so much stronger than any plant should be. More vines spring up and wrap around her arms and legs until she’s immobile.

“Well.” Delilah stands and brushes herself off, pausing to adjust the thorned roses that twine around her body like snakes. “You must be the little mouse who’s been trying to sniff me out. I must say, I’m impressed you managed to find me.” She steps closer to Billie, reaching for her mask and Billie can’t do anything to stop her from pulling it off her. “Though I must admit, I was expecting a man.”

“Let me  _ go.” _

Delilah makes a show of considering her request, humming as she bends to pick up the sword Billie took from her. Now that she can see it clearly, it looks like it’s made from whalebone. “But if I do that,” Delilah checks the blade’s sharpness by scraping her thumb across the cutting edge, “there’s nothing to stop you from trying to kill me again.” Her eyes swivel up to meet Billie’s. “Even if you did hesitate when you had your chance.”

A mistake that Billie doubts she’ll have long to regret.

Delilah looks at her expectantly, waiting for some kind of reply, but Billie just glares at her with all the vehemence and vitriol she has. If this is how she dies, she's determined to go out as uncooperatively as possible.

“Now there's no reason for that. Let me see…” Delilah theatrically puts a finger on her chin as she considers Billie. “Red coat, surly attitude… You must be Daud's lieutenant, Billie Lurk.” Despite trying not to react, Billie still stiffens when Delilah says her name and the witch just grins. “You have almost as many wanted posters as he does.”

“If you’re going to kill me, can you get on with it?” Billie snaps. She has the poisoned pin in her glove if necessary, but she’d rather not use it unless she’s sure.

Delilah's eyes narrow. “Fine. Have it your way.” She flicks a wrist and a vine wraps around Billie's throat, just tight enough to threaten cutting off her airway. “How much does Daud know about my plans?”

Like fuck is Billie cooperating in an interrogation. She just glares at the snake of a witch in open contempt, meeting her stare dead on, and the vine around her throat tightens ever so slightly. Fine, if she’s so set on making her respond…

“Fuck off.”

“You would be wise not to challenge me,  _ girl.” _

_ “Witch,”  _ Billie spits back.

Delilah snarls, but backs off, appearing to reconsider her strategy. “I was hoping we might be able to discuss matters like adults. We both want the same thing.”

Billie glares at her, even as the vine around her throat loosens its grip. “And what might that be?”

“Why did you decide to follow Daud?”

“What does that have to do with anything?” She doesn’t appreciate the change in subject.

Delilah starts to slowly pace, not taking her eyes off Billie for even a moment. “Everything. It's why you're here right now, after all.” When Billie doesn't respond, she continues, “My sisters came to me because they were trapped in lives they hated, where they were powerless. I promised them not only freedom but a share of my magic. Is that how Daud drew you in? And how is that magic holding up, now that the Old Knife has rusted and lost his edge?”

The vines around her limbs are still holding her tightly, but Billie still tries to move despite them. “It ‘holds up’ just fine. Call off your plants and I can give you a demonstration.” She mentally files away the information Delilah has just let slip about her own Arcane Bond for later. (If she manages to get out of this, Daud is never,  _ ever _ going to hear the end of her I-told-you-so’s.)

“Is that so?”

“I can even take you to meet him, let you see for yourself if he’s ‘lost his edge.’”

Delilah smirks a little. “Oh? Are you really happy being second in command to an assassin that won’t kill?”

Billie yanks on the vines for all she’s worth, snarling like she’d be able to rip Delilah’s throat out if she could just get a  _ little closer, _ but Delilah only laughs.

“Poor girl,” she chuckles. “Did I hit a nerve with that one?”

“Shut. Up.”

“Wouldn’t it be better if you were in charge? The others must already listen to you, how hard would it really be to turn--”

_ “SHUT UP!” _ Billie doesn't ever raise her voice on a job. It’s unprofessional, nevermind a stupid way to get yourself caught, but she can’t find it in herself to care right now. She’s not about to let this witch insult--

Delilah’s eyes widen ever so slightly. “I see… While there may be no honor among thieves, there evidently is some love among assassins.”

Billie snarls, but she can’t refute that. The Whalers are her family.  _ Daud _ is her family, the closest thing to a decent parent she’s ever had, and she’ll be damned before she lets herself put any of them in danger.

“This might even be easier than I thought…” Delilah muses to herself. “You care about your Whalers and Daud, don't you? You want to keep them safe?” When Billie just bares her teeth like a wolfhound, Delilah smirks and continues, seeming to take that as confirmation. “You must know sheltering the princess will only bring about their ruin.”

Knowing that and hearing it out loud are apparently two different things because Billie literally  _ flinches _ at Delilah's words. (Flinches. Like an anxious child. What the actual fuck is wrong with her?)

Delilah hums and begins counting down on her fingers. “Burrows wants dearest Emily dead and controls the City Watch. Campbell controls the Overseers and will do whatever Burrows wants. I have my own plans for her and my coven at my back. Now Corvo Attano is back in play and likely seeking revenge. Do you honestly think your traps and preparations will be enough to protect your loved ones on four fronts?”

Billie keeps her gaze focused somewhere on the ground, not wanting to look at Delilah and admit to herself that the witch is right. The Overseers and City Watch may have all the subtlety of a flashbang, Attano may be just one man, and Delilah's witches may not have the Whalers’ fighting skills, but if Delilah is suggesting an attack from all four at once? How she'd pull something like that off is trivial, Billie has no doubt after chasing and failing to find Delilah for months that she could manage it somehow.

They’re fucked.

But Delilah is looking at Billie expectantly, this isn’t just an eleventh hour monologue. Maybe, just maybe, whatever she’s after will leave Billie still able to warn everyone. If she can just stay alive long enough to transverse close to someone’s patrol route, then maybe…

“What do you want?” Billie asks. She hates the resignation in her tone.

“The girl,” Delilah says simply. “If you help me take her from Daud, I’ll let him and all your little assassin friends live. I might even help you keep them that way.” She doesn’t waver as Billie stares hard at her, but that...that can’t be all.

“Really?”

“Really.”

“How do I know you’re not just lying?”

Delilah shrugs dismissively. “I suppose you don’t, but your only alternative is I kill you now and the others later. Your choice, really.”

Billie looks down, chewing on the inside of her lip as she considers.

“What do you want with her?” A token objection, she knows.

“Does it matter?”

If Billie’s choice is between her family and the girl? Not at all.

* * *

 

She doesn’t rush back to Rudshore. Instead, Billie takes the most roundabout route she can, detouring several times just to give herself more time to think and calm down. She needs to be composed and even when she reports in to Daud. She can’t let him think anything’s changed.

(But it hasn’t changed, not really. She’s still loyal, it’s not like she’s betraying him. She never promised the princess anything. How many times has she disobeyed Daud in the past? This time is no different, right?

Right?)

Stopping by the docks, finding a spot where she can smell the sea over the rot of fish and whale, usually helps when she needs to get out of her own head, but her racing thoughts pile up to a deafening roar the moment she stops moving, so she doesn’t stop. The Mark on her hand is glowing duller and duller with each transversal and her whole arm feels like it’s simultaneously freezing and burning. She has some remedies in her pockets, but she’s also fairly certain that the pain is helping to distract her.

(Delilah offered Billie her own Arcane Bond. Billie refused. She won’t be bound to this witch any longer than she has to be. This is a working relationship; they’ll go their separate ways as soon as Billie hands over the girl.)

By the time she returns to Rudshore, it’s well into the evening and everyone who’s around is in the dining hall. She considers waiting to talk to Daud alone in his office, but is almost worried she’d lose her nerve if she does. No, she should tell him now. Waiting wouldn’t be convincing.

It feels like everyone starts staring at her the moment she enters the room (she knows they’re not, they’re just turning to look at the new source of movement and sound and noting her arrival, that’s all) and walks over to Daud. Even though several people are either finished or getting seconds, Daud looks like he’s only just arrived. A folder is tucked under one arm and Misha is following him around, babbling or reporting rapid-fire about something and looking like he’s halfway to transversing away at a moment’s notice. (Ever since Fisher finally declared him fully healed, he’s been even less inclined than usual to stay in one place, nevermind how his recovery would have been shorter had he not kept popping his stitches.)

“Billie,” Daud acknowledges her before she even opens her mouth. “Any luck today?” By his tone, she knows he fully expects her to say no.

(She just needs to keep him distracted for a little while, just a bit of harmless misdirection while she and Delilah plan how they’ll get the girl out of Rudshore. That’s it. No one has to get hurt. No one has to put themselves at risk.)

“Actually, I might have found something,” Billie says with deliberate casualness. “‘Might’ being the operative word, but…” When she trails off, she shrugs. “There’s a whaling trawler owned by Bundry Rothwild called ‘The Delilah.’ Could be a coincidence.”

“Could be. But what do you think?” Daud looks at her and Billie nearly loses her nerve (he can’t read minds, he only knows what she’s telling him, he has no reason not to trust her…).

She shakes her head. “I doubt it. This is the first lead that hasn’t gone up in smoke as soon as I got close to it, too. We should look into it. Maybe it’s named after her.”

Daud nods. He finishes loading his plate and balances it with one hand so he can clap her on the shoulder with the other. “We’ll see if it is. Good work.”

Billie gives him small, self-satisfied grin that drops into a sigh as soon as he turns to go find a table.

She should have killed Delilah when she had the fucking chance.

* * *

If she ignores the way the island suddenly cuts off into swirling blue nothingness and the singing whales that sometimes pass by overhead, Emily might almost be able to trick herself into thinking she’s in Morley. The field of wildflowers she’s found herself in tonight is exactly like one she visited three years ago. There was some kind of anniversary or celebration that the King and Queen of Morley were observing, and the Empress was expected to make an appearance, and for once Emily got to make the journey with her mother and Corvo. She finally got to see an actual ship up close and see whales swimming out on the ocean, but the best part were the grounds surrounding the estate they stayed in. Unlike the meticulously manicured urban gardens of Dunwall Tower, the manor was in the country and surrounded on all sides by fields of wildflowers. Emily had  _ begged _ her mother to go out for a picnic with just the three of them, using all her best tricks and tactics to get her to agree, but she did eventually.

And it was  _ wonderful. _

Something in Emily’s chest hurts at the memories and she hugs herself tight. These dreams may be significantly more pleasant than the ones she had been getting from Delilah, are definitely better than the ones she was getting before those, but they’re still not great. This place is cold and strange and, usually, incredibly lonely. Finding herself in this field doesn’t help, either. It just makes her want her mother. And Corvo.

But she still knows how these dreams (if she can even call them that) go; she’ll probably be here all night. She sighs and runs her palms across the tops of the tall grasses and multicolored flowers, just enjoying the sensation. If she just wallows in her own thoughts, the night will feel like it’s dragging on forever. Sometimes pathways will open up when she walks close to the edges of the islands, letting her explore, but here is… It brings up good memories, even if they hurt. She’d rather stay here, if it’s an option.

Part of why she liked the field in Morley so much was because she was actually allowed to pick the flowers. The Tower gardens always had plenty, more than enough for Emily to take a few without them being missed, but someone always scolded her when she tried. Corvo told her to pick as many pretty ones as she could find and he’d make her something with them. She did, bringing him a whole armfull of blossoms, and watched with awe as Corvo expertly wove the stems together into a circular wreath. When he presented the flower crown to her she practically squealed and ran off to pick even more flowers, convinced that Corvo should make crowns for both himself and Mother so that all three of them could match. She wasn’t sure her mother would wear hers, she always had to put up such a serious front, but this one time she acquiesced to Emily’s whims and wore the crown for the rest of the day.

It’s hard not to sniffle at the memory, and Emily quickly wipes away a couple small tears. To distract herself, she wanders around and picks a few handfuls of pretty flowers and sits down in the tall grass with them on her lap. She can remember what the flower crowns looked like when Corvo finished with them, but she can’t seem to recall  _ how _ he made them, exactly.

Surely she can figure it out, it didn’t seem that difficult.

The best she can manage is a chain, however. She ties the end of one flower’s stem to the stem of the next, but that leaves too much empty space. Corvo wove them together somehow so that the blossoms were flush against each other. She tries again, this time trying to make a braid with the stems of three flowers, but the whole thing comes undone when she tries to add another flower.

This isn’t working.

Something makes the air around her warp and displace, and she can smell sea salt as the black-eyed boy appears beside her, floating just above the tips of the grasses like he’s lying on his stomach.

_ “And what are you working on, Your Majesty?” _ he asks. He still regards her with that tangible kind of curiosity and is still decidedly strange, even unnerving at times, but Emily has almost grown accustomed to him. At minimum, the way he suddenly appears out of the shadows like one of the Whalers doesn’t surprise her anymore.

She holds up the flowers, deliberately focusing her gaze on his nose or his forehead or one of his ears, anything that will let her avoid making direct eye-contact. “I wanted to make a flower crown,” she explains.

The boy smirks.  _ “Practicing?” _

Emily may let him get away with calling her “majesty,” but the reminder that she’s going to soon be taking her mother’s place, her throne, and her crown still makes her fidget. “No, nothing like that,” she murmurs. She sets the pitiful attempt on her lap and frowns at it. “Corvo…” Covo what? How much of an explanation does she owe this boy? Part of her wants to say none, but another part (the same part that whispers that she knows  _ exactly _ who this boy is and where they both are, even if she’s avoiding admitting that to herself to keep from unpacking anything she doesn’t want do delve into too deeply) knows that he could probably find out whether she tells him or not, and wouldn’t it be better to be somewhat in control of how he gets the information?

The shadows shift in her peripheral vision and when Emily looks back up the boy’s smirk has faded, seemingly at the mention of Corvo.  _ “You miss him.” _

She nods, even though it wasn’t really a question. “We had a picnic in a field of flowers like this once, and he made the three of us flower crowns. I...wanted to try.”

_ “Did he show you how to make them?” _

“Not really. I watched him, but…”

He disappears and the tall grass beside her parting is the only warning she gets that he’s reappeared there.  _ “Here.” _

“O...kay?” Emily slowly hands him a few of the flowers and watches as he organizes them neatly on his lap before picking up a few and beginning to weave their stems together.

_ “Watch closely,” _ he says, working with painstaking slowness that allows Emily to easily follow his motions.

It’s repetitive, and after he’s added a few flowers, Emily thinks she understands well enough that she picks up some flowers of her own and begins to parrot his movements. “I didn’t think you’d know how to do this.”

The boy actually scoffs at her.  _ “I know everything, little Empress,”  _ he says with a haughty expression that’s so childish it makes Emily giggle in spite of all her etiquette lessons.

When he gives her a look, she tries to salvage her manners. “I have no doubt that you do. This just didn’t strike me as something that would interest you.” The boy’s weaving is much tighter and neater than Emily’s, but at least hers is staying together now. “Where did you learn?” It’s a moment before she realizes that the boy’s long fingers have stopped moving. When she looks up, his expression has shifted into something that looks almost sad.

_ “I don’t remember.” _

“Oh…” she swallows and looks down at her own hands. “Well, you’re good at it. Yours looks better than mine.”

Silence settles between them. She can feel the boy staring at her with that same curious manner he always has. It’s something that should make her uncomfortable, but she doesn’t want to look up and accidentally meet his gaze so she keeps her own on the project in her lap.

_ “I was right when I said you were unexpectedly interesting,”  _ he says suddenly, placing something lightly on Emily’s head. When she jolts and reaches up, she finds a completed flower crown.  _ “You won’t be able to keep this, I’m afraid. It will only last until you wake.” _

What Emily wants to ask is how he managed to finish so quickly, but she knows better than to ask questions she doesn’t want the answers to. Instead, she looks at him briefly before returning her attention to her own quarter-finished project and asking, “How do I keep coming here?”

The boy hums.  _ “The bone charm Daud gave you isn’t powerful enough to negate magic, only redirect it. Delilah has not given up on her plans; she still tries to pull your consciousness to her, but the charm won’t let her get too close. She can only pull you halfway.” _

“What does she want?” She doubts she wants to know the answer, but Daud told her that she’s given them their only solid leads on Delilah. The boy’s hints are the reason they have that much. If it means Emily can be helpful, she’ll risk a bit of discomfort. It’s the least she can do.

But the boy just gives her one of his unnerving smiles.  _ “My apologies, Your Majesty, but that would be cheating.” _

“You told me who she was before,” she says flatly. “What was that?”

_ “A hint. Daud was getting nowhere on his own.” _

Emily huffs. “Fine.”

He hums again. Something about it reminds her of the whales’ songs.

“Are you and Daud friends?”

_ “Of a sort, though I doubt he sees it that way. He thinks I abandoned him for a long time.” _

“Did you?”

The boy shakes his head.  _ “No. He only lost my interest and attention.” _ Even though Emily bites back a smart-aleck response, he still chuckles and responds as if she said it aloud:  _ “Few have ever said I was a good friend.” _

“You can’t really blame him, then…”

_ “That is true.”  _ The shadows that curl off him like mist shift in Emily’s peripheral vision again.  _ “What about you?” _

“What do you mean?”

_ “You’ve come to care for Daud, too, have you not?" _

Emily pauses. She’s nearly finished her flower crown, but she doesn’t know how to weave the ends together. “I have,” she responds carefully.

_ “This despite everything he’s done, to you and others?”  _ Seeing her struggling, the boy takes the crown and slowly, carefully weaves the ends together where she can see what he’s doing.  _ “Very little of it has been done for what you might call a noble cause.” _

“I know…” Her voice is quiet.

_ “His Whalers are far from innocent as well.” _

“People can change,” she says, voice even softer as he hands her back the finished crown.

_ “I’ve watched them for four thousand years, Empress. They rarely do.” _

He would know, wouldn’t he? Emily turns the flower crown carefully in her hands. It’s nowhere near as good as Corvo’s; there are too many gaps and the ends of stems stick out in places, but she’s pleased with her attempt. As she considers his words, she suddenly gets a spark of determination and finally forces herself to meet the boy’s black eyes.

“Maybe,” she says, reaching up to drop the crown on his shaggy hair. “But they’re trying, and my mother would say that should count for something.”

The boy blinks and actually slips into what almost looks like a genuine human smile.  _ “As you say, Your Majesty.” _

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playing fast and loose with canon is cool in fanfic, right? Right??? Cause I'm not gonna stop xD
> 
> This fic is clearly a thinly masked excuse to examine my Billie Lurk Feels, whoops xD
> 
> Also I forgot my tumblr plug last chapter. [Whoops.](https://donotfeedthewildauthor.tumblr.com/)


	10. In which the High Overseer has a very bad day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may have noticed this is a series now (wooo!). The second fic, "Fairytale End from the Staggering Blow," is a collection of backstories and deleted scenes. So far it has Fisher's backstory and a cute little deleted scene from the beginning of this chapter. They're not necessary, but you might enjoy them (I hope).
> 
> Remember how I've said before the sarcasm started early when I first wrote Corvo and I couldn't turn it off? I still can't. And it apparently applies to his chapter titles, whoops.

When Corvo comes downstairs for breakfast, it’s very clear that something is wrong. Martin is nowhere to be seen, Havelock is pacing hard enough to wear a hole in the floor, and Pendleton has probably already found the bottoms of a couple wine glasses if his flush is anything to go off of. In fact, the only other person Corvo sees is a very anxious Cecelia wiping down what’s usually the Loyalists’ favored table. On the floor is a dustpan filled with shiny shards that look conspicuously like glass.

“This isn’t like him,” Havelock grumbles, seemingly to himself. “He’s always at the meeting points.  _ Always. _ And he says he’s careful, he  _ always _ says he’s careful, what…” He storms towards the bar and pours himself some whiskey. “He wouldn’t… He wouldn’t reschedule without saying something, we have protocol for that. He  _ wrote _ the protocol for that!”

“It’s  _ over,” _ Pendleton moans, face in his hands. “It’s all  _ over, _ we’re  _ dead,  _ we may as well just wait for the Watch--”

“It’s not OVER!” Havelock snaps. He makes an abrupt motion like he’s about to throw his glass, but aborts it when he remembers that there’s alcohol inside. It’s enough to make Cecelia flinch hard, though, and Corvo grimaces. “We don’t know that he’s been caught and even if he has been, Martin’s smarter than to open his mouth! We have time!”

Even without using his powers, it’s laughably easy to get around Havelock and Pendleton unseen. Corvo approaches Cecelia and gently taps her shoulder. She jumps a bit and whips around, already preparing a string of apologies before Corvo is able to motion for her to be quiet. He takes the rag she’d been using to clean and motions for her to leave.

“But--”

“I’ll take care of them,” he murmurs, trying his best to be reassuring. Cecelia is anxious on a good day, and right now her nerves are visibly shot from Havelock shouting and breaking glasses. Before she can slip away, though, a thought strikes Corvo and he asks sternly, “Are you hurt?”

She blinks and stares at him for a second, confused, but flinches when Havelock starts yelling again.

“For VOID’S SAKES, Treavor! Stop your damnable snivelling!”

“Are you hurt?” Corvo repeats, trying to force his tone softer. She doesn’t need to feel bullied by him, too.

Cecelia shakes her head. “No, sir,” she murmurs, and Corvo relaxes slightly, nodding. He steps back to give her space to dart out of the bar and run upstairs.

When she’s gone, Corvo squares his shoulders, puts on his sternest face, and loudly clears his throat to get Havelock and Pendleton’s attention. “What’s wrong?”

“Ah. Corvo. There you are.” Havelock offers him a weak attempt at an easy smile that he doesn’t bother to return. “We’ve… Ah… We might have a slight problem.”

Oh really? Corvo would have never guessed.

“Is Martin missing?”

“He’s been  _ arrested, _ the Overseers probably have him in their interrogation room  _ nowww, _ or the Watch will have him in… In  _ Coldridge,” _ Pendleton practically wails before pouring himself a (surprisingly steady) full glass of wine and taking a large gulp.

“We don’t know that!” Havelock snaps. “And will you stop your whining?! By the Void, man, pull yourself together!”

Of course it would be the most tolerable one that goes missing, Corvo does not have the patience for this. “What is it that you do know?”

“Samuel went to pick him up this morning, but he wasn’t at the meeting point,” Havelock says.

“Could he have decided not to show up?” Maybe someone was watching him too closely or an unscheduled meeting got called, who knows?

“No, he would have left a signal.” Havelock goes back to pacing. “This isn’t like him!”

“Where’s Samuel now?”

“I sent him out to look again. He should be back soon, though.”

Corvo frowns and the Heart gives a little quiver in his pocket, as if reminding him of her existence. That’s an idea he’d rather not follow through with, but depending on what Samuel can tell him, he might just have to.

“Pendleton.” The noble turns his bleary eyes on Corvo. “Why do you think Martin’s been arrested?”

“H-he keeps saying how careful we need to be.” Pendleton hiccups and takes another swig from his wineglass. “We weren’t going to move on our plans at all until everything was ready, but with Campbell and the Regent closing in, we had to begin early.”

Corvo hasn’t been able to parse out just how long they were prepared to let him rot in Coldridge, and he isn’t entirely sure if he wants to know.

“They haven’t been ‘closing in,’ they’ve just been more vigorous with their searches,” Havelock spits. “Stop being dramatic.”

Corvo notes Callista silently enter the room and go directly to the stove. She puts a kettle on and gets two clean mugs together. When she notices Corvo watching her, she gives him a little, polite smile.

“Given that, however,” Corvo turns his attention back to the Loyalists, “it is plausible that Martin’s been apprehended, yes?”

Pendleton nods vigorously while Havelock grumbles something that sounds like acquiescence.

“Then we need to plan for the worst case scenario.”

“I don’t think Martin will have talked, not yet,” says Havelock. “They’ve only had him for a day, if they have him at all.”

“A lot can happen in a day.” Corvo is intimately familiar with that.

Havelock, though, shakes his head, waving dismissively with the hand not holding his now half-full glass. “Overseers operate differently with their own, we have time.”

Isn’t that nice for Martin? Shaking off that uncharitable thought, Corvo shifts to cross his arms. “So we need to get to him sooner rather than later.”

“Exactly.” The Admiral pauses to down the remainder of his glass, and has completely regained his confident authoritative demeanor by the time he continues. “He’d be in Holger, if he’s being held, which might prove convenient for us. We’ve been discussing who to send you after first, but it appears Fate has forced our hands. High Overseer Campbell will be our first target.” Corvo’s first target, he means. “He has an infamous black book that he carries with him at all times. If he knows any of the Lord Regent’s secrets, they’ll be written down there. Including,” Havelock pauses briefly (presumably for dramatic effect and to give a self-satisfied smirk), “Lady Emily’s location.”

Callista looks up from where she’s straining tea leaves to give Havelock a brief look that’s somewhere between shock and indignation at the fact that finding Emily was evidently not the primary concern (an expression Corvo imagines that he’s mirroring). With a slight huff, she collects the two mugs and goes back up the stairs. Havelock and Pendleton appear to have not noticed her entrance or exit at all.

As much as he would like to gently and repeatedly bash his own head against the wall, Corvo just asks, “When should I leave?”

“Tonight, after dark,” Havelock says decisively, all previous apprehension evidently forgotten. “Speak with Piero before you do. He’s had his week that he asked for, he should be done with your equipment by now.”

To avoid making some sarcastic remark, Corvo just nods. As he walks past Havelock, the Heart beats, stronger than before.  _ “He is one to be watchful of, this Admiral,” _ she murmurs.  _ “Him and his high ambitions.” _

* * *

Corvo doesn’t know how it’s possible, but somehow Piero’s mask is even more horrifying in real life than it was in the sketches. He turns it over in his hands, examining it idly while Samuel steers the  _ Amaranth _ down the Wrenhaven.

“I’ll drop you off over near by the Distillery District,” he said, eyes on where he’s driving. “It’ll be a rough trip. Used to be you could just go straight up Clavering, but the Watch has been setting up those Wall of Light checkpoints. I don’t know if all of them are operational yet, but you should be careful, Lord Attano.”

“Corvo.”

“Hm?” Samuel turns to look back at him.

“You can call me Corvo if you’d like.” He isn’t much of a Lord Protector anymore, anyway.

Samuel actually looks surprised for a moment before he regains his composure. “Oh. Well. All right, then. If you’d prefer.”

Corvo nods, putting the mask on as they start nearing their destination. At least it’s relatively comfortable. “Do you have any suggestions? For getting to Holger.”

“‘Fraid not. But what streets aren’t controlled by the Watch are gang territory. The Distillery District is controlled by Slackjaw and his Bottle Street Gang. If you’re willing to work with them, they might be able to help.”

He nods again. That doesn’t sound particularly appealing, but it’s something to keep in mind.

“There’re also some real strange birds living there on the fringes where people have left because of the Plague, like that Granny Rags. She’s supposed to be crazy, but someone over there might be able to point you around the checkpoints.”

That sounds like an altogether better idea.

* * *

It is not, in fact, an altogether better idea.

As he approaches the apartments on Endoria Street, the Heart starts beating faster, indicating a rune is nearby. He approaches from the rooftops, Blinking from one to the other (he’s gotten quite good at them from his intermittent practice sessions and has even discovered a new power that lets him see people through walls) until he sees an old woman throwing refuse into the street from the second floor. She appears to be blind from the way she feels her way around. Corvo intends to just wait for her to finish with whatever she’s doing, but she actually turns and looks  _ right at him. _

And invites him inside.

She asks him in a sickly saccharine voice if he could do her a favor and remove some “gentlemen callers” from her front door about a minute before three members of the Bottle Street gang actually arrive there. If Corvo helps her, she offers to reward him with a “birthday present” that does not sound at all frightening. Still, he can’t just leave an old woman to the mercy of some gang members.

Once the thugs are unconscious and safely stored, the old woman produces a rune from some pocket and hands it to him without explanation. As it turns to ash in his gloved hands, she giggles.

“I’ll have another one for you, dearie, if you can do me just one more favor.”

The only thing stopping him from responding with outright disgust at her request to infect the Bottle Street Gang’s elixir still is the Heart whispering right as he opens his mouth:  _ “Careful. She treads with purpose, and is not as frail as she seems.” _

Minutes later, when he manages to sneak over to the shrine in the alley only accessible through her house, the Outsider tells him the same thing:  _ “Be careful, Corvo. They call her Granny Rags, and she is not one to be trifled with.” _

(Is he seeing things or are there flower petals mixed in with the swirling shadows around him? He must be, because he only sees them for half a second.)

Still, the detour lets Corvo see a path around the first wall of light he needed to bypass, slipping up Bottle Street and back onto the rooftops, balconies, and lampposts of Clavering. A second wall of light is being installed within another archway, but for now it isn’t a problem and he’s able to Blink through over the heads of the guards. Two captains are pouring over a map spread across a makeshift table and Corvo peeks over at it, curious. It outlines the security measures that are being installed on the Boulevard and include two of Sokolov’s automated watchtowers. (Those will be a huge problem if he ever has to come back up this way.) In the top right-hand corner of the plans is what Corvo recognizes as Burrows’ crest along with some kind of banner that Corvo has to use his mask’s spyglass to read.

“THE BOLDEST MEASURES ARE THE SAFEST!”

Oh for Void’s sakes…

The entryway into Holger is blocked entirely and is watched by a guard and flood lights bright enough to illuminate half a block. Corvo takes a moment to adjust his position on top of a streetlight before Blinking over onto the awning of a boarded-up shop to get a better view. This certainly complicates things… Even with his powers, he won’t be able to just go up and over, the roof of the tunnel is too high. The guard is clearly more concerned about people trying to approach Holger Square, not people leaving it, because his back is turned to the the small door that’s the only break in the barricade. If Corvo can get around him, he should be able to just sneak right on through, but the problem is  _ how _ he’s going to get around. He’s fairly certain he doesn’t disappear when he Blinks, just blurs.

Under his glove, the Mark on the back of his left hand gets a biting, tingling itch that doesn’t go away when he scratches it. When he tries just ignoring it to focus on the task at hand, starts making a strange, soundless hum that reverberates through his bones and into his skull where it starts to sound like words, albeit ones in no language he’s ever heard. They almost sound like when he uses…

Oh.

Well he’s an idiot, isn’t he?

When he clenches his fist, he can hear one of those strange whispers that seem to come from the Void itself and sees what looks like a haze of shadow around one of the rats picking through the trash on the street below. Magic builds up and when he releases it, there’s the distinctly uncomfortable feeling of his body being stretched into smoke and then crammed into a vessel that’s much, much too small. When he blinks, the world has gone grey and everything sounds like he’s hearing it from underwater. His first instinct is to panic because now he’s standing in the middle of the street where everyone can see him, but then why do all the guards look so Void-damned  _ tall? _

It’s only when a rat bumps its nose into the side of his head that Corvo realizes what he’s done and reassesses the situation. He can already feel his magic starting to fray under the strain of maintaining it for longer than he’s used to, he’s going to need to move quickly. He looks around to orient himself, then bolts off towards the barricade. A Watchman nearly steps on his tail, and Corvo counts himself lucky that the second Wall of Light is still being assembled. Otherwise, he might still have to contend with avoiding the Watch and their penchant for tossing live rats into them. As it stands, though, he’s able to duck around boots, dive behind a stack of boxes behind the guard manning the entrance to Holger where he’s able to safely release the magic, and continue on his way.

So, he can possess animals now. Good to know. He wonders idly if it would work with people as well, but pushes the thought away almost immediately, disgusted. He doesn’t plan on investigating that possibility any time soon.

The entrance into the Square is dark, the street after the tunnel lit only by the flood lights shining on the stocks in front of the High Overseer’s Office and not by the more diffuse streetlights that line Clavering. But there are also fewer people. Corvo sees only one guard pacing back and forth in front of whichever poor soul is stuck in the stocks. It provides him the opportunity to pause and drink a remedy to stave off the oncoming headache from his overuse of magic.

While he’s stopped, a second guard appears to relieve the other from his post. Instead of pacing, however, the new Overseer approaches the stocks. It gives Corvo the opportunity to sneak into the shadows, but he stops when he hears the guard address the prisoner.

“Hello there, Martin,” he sneers. “How are those shackles treating you? I hear the second day is when the skin starts to  _ really _ come off. Or is it the itching that’s worse? Or the rats?”

“Jasper, isn’t it?” That’s definitely Martin. Corvo glances around, but the last guard has already left. Perfect. “It’s not so bad in here, really. Although, I suppose I do miss your wife. Give her my best, will you?”

The guard snorts, completely oblivious of Corvo sneaking up behind him. “You don’t scare easily, I’ll give you that. But that’ll change. I hear they’re getting the interrogation chair all ready for y--”

He’s cut off by Corvo’s arm wrapped tight around his windpipe. He only struggles for few seconds before going limp, at which point Corvo lets him drop.

“Hello, Corvo,” Martin says casually. “I was hoping Farley would send you. Aren’t you a sight in that mask?”

“Are you hurt?” Corvo asks, reaching for the lever to release Martin’s shackles.

“Nothing that won’t heal.” When the shackles release, Martin falls forward, but is at least able to catch himself.

Corvo offers him a hand up and pulls him to his feet. “What happened?”

The Overseer’s expression instantly sours. “I got careless. It won’t happen again, I assure you.”

Corvo nods. “Samuel’s at the waterfront, can you make your own way back?”

“Don’t worry about me,” Martin says, going down the steps and bending to pull off Jasper’s mask. “I doubt I’m your only stop tonight, so I shouldn’t be having too many issues with sneaking away in the future.” He pauses halfway through pulling the mask on. “Actually, I have an idea. Would you help me put him in those shackles?”

Behind his mask, Corvo can’t help but smirk. It isn’t a bad idea; Jasper has about the same hair color as Martin so he bears enough of a passing resemblance to perhaps take his place until morning, assuming no one gets too close. (And that Jasper doesn’t wake up before then and start yelling.) Between the two of them, they manage to put the unconscious Overseer in the shackles with relative ease.

“There,” Martin says smugly, pulling on Jasper’s mask. “Did Havelock tell you about Campbell’s book?” When Corvo nods, Martin continues. “Good. I’ll make my own way back to the Hound Pits, but I’ll find Samuel and tell him to meet you at the docks behind the Office of the High Overseer. The backyard will be crawling with Warfare Overseers armed with hounds, take care not to be seen.”

“Of course. Good luck.”

“To you as well,” Martin says genially as he turns to leave and lowers the mask to cover his face. “May all the spirits guide you, and may our enemy’s head hit the floor without you taking a scratch.”

_ “Do not be deceived by his talk of Strictures,” _ the Heart murmurs when Martin walks away.  _ “Martin’s crimes weigh heavy on his spirit. He has been a soldier, a highway robber, and now a man of faith.” _

Corvo watches Martin leave with a frown, unsure if he would have rather gone without that that information. He supposes it doesn’t really matter all that much and when the Overseer has left, he Blinks up onto a ledge to where he can get over the brick and wrought iron fence surrounding Holger Square.

On the other side, the front of the Office is lit up bright by flood lights, definitively ruling out entry through the front door (no loss; it wasn’t something Corvo was seriously considering anyway) and armed Overseers are patrolling throughout the Square at various levels of alertness. Looking for an open window, Corvo Blinks to the ledge that (conveniently) goes along the entire second floor at window-level. He finds what he’s looking for, slips inside, and blinks up onto one of the ridiculous lighting fixtures that are just perfect for someone to hide on.

(If--When he gets back to the Tower, assuming Burrows hasn’t burnt down the place, he is going to see to it that all the large chandeliers are replaced, even if he has to do it all himself.)

He has a plan, but is unsure of how well it would work. He’s fairly certain there’s a way for Overseers to be excommunicated, and outside he overheard one talking about something called the Heretic’s Brand. It was too difficult to get closer without being seen and the Overseer was speaking to low for Corvo to eavesdrop properly, but the name is familiar. He only hopes that there’s something in this building that can tell him more. If there’s anything, though, he would think it would be in the archives. Hopefully it’s late enough that no one will be in there doing work.

Strictly speaking, there isn’t an easy way into the archive room, but the transom windows above the large double doors are open. Corvo is able to Blink from the light onto the window pane and squeeze through the opening (this would be infinitely easier if he were shorter; the only reason he’s able to fit now is probably all the weight he lost in Coldridge), keeping to the shadows when he hears voices inside.

“No, no, we must start back from the beginning, go back over all of it. It’s clear that it was Martin’s plan to break him out of Coldridge, but why? Why free the murderer of the Empress?”

Two Overseers have documents and files spread out across one of the desks in the cubicles on the upper level of the archive room, heads together as they consider what they have laid out.

“Well, his skills are known throughout the Empire, and for good reason,” the second one says. “He escaped with half the Watch looking for him.”

“That’s true, but we know he had to have help.”

“Of course, but how far up does it go? I hear that a few Watchmen have been detained for their parts.”

“Yes… That trail goes to Martin, but Martin knows everyone, everywhere…”

“Hmm…”

Corvo checks the room with his Dark Vision; those two are the only ones in the archives. He sneaks up behind them and waits while one steps away from the desk. He’s able to grab him before he reaches the stairs, chokes him out, and carries the limp Overseer to the very furthest cubicle. The second Overseer is completely oblivious, still pouring over his papers.

“Where… Surely not to the Flooded District? Or did he? The Watch seems to think he’s hiding out somewhere in the Estate District, but…”

Once he’s unconscious, Corvo unceremoniously dumps the second Overseer beside his brother before returning to the tall shelves below. Everything in the stacks is organized neatly according to whatever cataloguing system the Overseers use, but Corvo doesn’t know what exactly he’s looking for. If he has to go through every volume, he’ll be here all night, and that’s assuming no one comes in suddenly and catches him. As much as he’d rather not, he doesn’t have much of a choice but to ask the Heart.

She starts beating as soon as Corvo has the thought, only calming slightly when he reaches into his pocket to take her out. After a cautious glance around to confirm no one is nearby, Corvo lifts up his mask slightly to look at her.

“Jessamine,” he murmurs, smoothing his thumb over the little glass window.

_ “Once the Overseers bring them here, they never leave. The Abbey always finds the guilt it seeks,” _ she says, like she’s acknowledging him in her limited way.

“I’m looking for a book, can you help me?” He closes his eyes for a second before looking back at her.

She beats once, twice. The window glows dully.

_ “This… This room is full of books.” _

He has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. That’s fair. “I need one that will help me deal with the High Overseer. With Campbell. Do you remember?”

The window glows again.  _ “He breaks all Seven Strictures each day. His own personal joke.” _

That sounds like a yes. “Is there a book in here about something called the Heretic’s Brand?”

She beats slowly, as if she’s thinking.  _ “There’s… I see a young Overseer, looking for the punishment he is risking. He was called away, and in his haste left it open on the page he was reading.” _

Corvo looks up and sees a book lying open on the High Overseer’s desk on the far side of the room. He blinks over to it and sees a sketch in the corner of the page of a symbol made of three lines that are not quite parallel to each other. That must be it.”

“Thank you,” Corvo murmurs, holding the Heart to his chest for a brief moment before slipping her back into his pocket and pulling his mask back down.

* * *

Locating Campbell is somewhat more of an ordeal than previously anticipated. Corvo searches the entire second floor and finds nothing besides some coins and a rune hung on the wall of an opulent meeting room. Cursing under his breath in ever more creative ways, he carefully checks once more, this time with his Dark Vision to ensure he isn’t just accidentally glossing over his target. He would be more inclined to search for Campbell on the first floor if it wasn’t open to the public. Campbell might be many things (a corrupt bastard being at the top of Corvo’s mental list), but he is certainly not the type to risk rubbing elbows with the lower classes. 

It’s when he’s about to give up and start combing through the rooms downstairs that Corvo has a small stroke of luck.

He’s perched on one of those ridiculous light fixtures, hiding from a pair of Overseers coming down the hallway when a third carrying papers approaches them:

“Good evening, brothers,” he says. “Have you seen the High Overseer? I’m supposed to turn this report into him, but he doesn’t appear to be anywhere.”

“Have you checked the archive and his meeting room?”

“Yes. Both are empty.”

“Then he’s probably in his sanctum by the kennels. Best not to disturb him while he’s there.”

“Indeed. You should just put that report on his desk. I’m certain he’ll find it once he returns.”

A sanctum? That sounds promising.

After a quick consultation of the map, Corvo makes his way to the first floor, Blinking onto the transom windows above the door, then to the (absolutely ridiculous) light fixture, and finally next to the door in front of the stairs that leads down to the kennels (Corvo has never been happier for the Overseers’ love of labeling everything). He doesn’t see anything, though, except for a few crates and a particularly ugly bust of Benjamin Holger, but he wasn’t exactly expecting the entrance to be obvious.

With Dark Vision, he can see a glowing silhouette on the other side of the wall, pacing back and forth. When he puts his ear against it, he can hear the faint sounds of music and someone speaking in gruff irritation.

“... insists it would be a security risk. Hmph. Ridiculous. I was rather...”

Campbell.

_ There must be a mechanism somewhere, _ Corvo thinks to himself. He glances around again, his gaze landing on the bust of Holger to his left.

Initially, he thought that it had a single, weird jeweled eye, but perhaps not. Corvo draws his sword (the folding mechanism really is quite ingenious) and his crossbow, loading it with a sleep dart before he presses the “eye.” Unsurprisingly, it depresses, and a moment later the wall in front of him slides away.

“...care of him--who’s there?! Blast it, I’ve told you all a thousand times I am not to be dis--”

Campbell whirls around mid-sentence, yelling at what he thinks is a disobedient Overseer, but stops abruptly when he sees Corvo, all height and dark colors topped off with the grotesque mask.

“W-who are you?! How did you get in here?!” Campbell fumbles with the sword at his waist, unable to even get it out of the scabbard and foolishly ignoring his pistol.

Unable to resist, Corvo cocks his head to the side in an exaggerated manner. “Don’t sound so surprised, Campbell.”

If nothing else, he will always cherish the memory of how Campbell’s ugly, beady little eyes go wide with fear and recognition. “Y--”

...Right before Corvo shoots him with the dart and he goes down like a sack of potatoes, landing flat on his pinched face.

“Me.”

There’s another switch on the wall here like the one on the bust and it closes the wall behind him when he hits it, allowing Corvo to have a moment to search the room. If this is supposed to be Campbell’s private space, it’s probably where he keeps things he doesn’t want others to find. Martin seemed to think that Campbell has Emily’s location coded into his black book, but Corvo’s hoping there’s something else in here.

The room is a cluttered mess of picture frames and crates that gives way to a pair of mattresses strewn with dirty sheets and lingerie. Hung prominently on the wall is the portrait Sokolov recently painted of Campbell (looking far less brutish than the man does in real life, Sokolov has always been good at pleasing his patrons with unwarranted flattery). There’s also a glass display case holding a singing rune that’s making the Heart pulse wildly and a few other things that look like they might be worth some coin. Beside that, though, is an audiograph player set on record. Curious, Corvo stops it and sets it to play while he goes through the display case and cuts the portrait out of the frame (Piero did ask that he bring back things they could sell, after all).

_ “Curse those fools at Coldridge for letting Corvo get away. Who knows what he could do now? My coin’s on him coming after the lot of us, but Hiram--oh, I’m sorry, the  _ Lord Regent _ is confident in all those damnable Sokolov technologies he’s put up all over the city. He says that the girl’s been moved to a safe place, but I’m not entirely sure he’s telling the truth. Besides, even if he’s only planning on letting her be a figurehead, she still needs to be able to play the part and to that end should be receiving an education. I doubt those parasites are providing for it. I’ve requested that I be granted leave to see her and ensure she’s being cared for, but the  _ Lord Regent _ insists it would be a security risk. Hmph. Ridiculous. I was rather hoping for an excuse to ‘inspect the facilities,’ as they say.” _

On the recording, Campbell chuckles, then sighs as he continues: _“Tensions between the Abbey and the Watch are ever increasing. It’s that damn fool Curnow’s fault. He insists on taking me to task over the behavior of some of my Overseers; maintains that they’ve been behaving ‘inappropriately’ towards the populace. Given that it’s his outfit who lost Corvo, I hardly think he has any room to talk. Hm. We have a meeting scheduled in a week and a half. I have half a mind to slip some poison in his wine, that would take_ _care of him--who’s there?! Blast it--”_

Corvo stops the audiograph, takes it, and puts it in a pocket of his coat. He’s certain it’s Emily Campbell’s talking about in the beginning, and if Martin’s wrong, it’s still  _ something _ to go off of. The information about Curnow is troubling, but at least now Campbell won’t be a threat to him anymore. (Perhaps he should say something to Callista about it? Suggest she write her uncle, maybe? He doesn’t want to actually  _ tell _ her Campbell meant to kill him.)

Speaking of which…

Using the toe of his boot, Corvo rolls Campbell onto his back (ugh, he’s going to have to carry him all the way upstairs…) and bends to start going through his pockets. He’s quickly able to find a small journal bound in black leather. When he flips through it, it does indeed appear to be written in code; none of the pages make any sense. He pockets the book with a sigh. He’ll probably have to rely on Martin. Damn it.

(Though if he didn’t? Where would he go? He has no other allies, nowhere to run or to take Emily. It might be better if he starts getting used to the idea of working with the Loyalists sooner rather than later; it appears he’s stuck with them.)

Campbell is heavier than he looks, if that’s even possible, and Corvo mutters a few uncharitable curses as he hefts the bastard over his shoulder. It’s only through luck, several Blinks, and gratuitous use of Dark Vision that Corvo is able to actually carry Campbell up to the interrogation room. There’s something perversely satisfying about strapping Campbell into the chair and looming over him instead of the other way around.

The branding iron is inside a case within what Corvo can only describe as a spectating area, the sight of which makes him inexplicably nauseous. It’s too neat and comfortable with its plush chairs and an ashtray that’s at perfect armrest height to be paired with the the torture room below. He’s all too willing to take the brand and return to Campbell, pondering its placement.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the record, I hate writing chapters that are close to canon but not quite. xP  
> Why do I do this to myself?
> 
> Also just realized this has what is technically the second "Paradise Lost" reference I've dropped in here, my undergraduate English professor would be so proud xD  
> I usually don't point stuff like that out, but this time I want to because the passage that last line is supposed to vaguely reference fits Dishonored really well. Like [really well.](https://www.goodreads.com/quotes/50363-into-this-wild-abyss-the-womb-of-nature-and-perhaps)


	11. In which Daud follows a lead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dad!Daud is back and he's pissed, y'all xD
> 
> In other news, I have to present a poster on my research at a conference on Saturday, please wish me luck (I'm gonna DIE)

Daud has never liked Slaughterhouse Row. It's filthy, disgusting, and smells perpetually of rotting flesh, but this is their only lead on Delilah. He’s willing to take what he can get at this point.

Billie’s already there, scouting out the area when he arrives. She barely turns to glance over her shoulder at him when he transverses behind her. “Daud.”

“Billie,” he says, nodding. “What do you have for me?”

“It’s a mess down there. Rothwild runs this place like prison. Stupid workers can’t even get in without a time card,” she spits. “It sounds like someone’s trying to stir up a strike, though. Heard a bunch of butchers talking about confiscating time cards.”

“Do we know who it is?”

“Not yet.”

Daud frowns, pulling out his spyglass to look at the structure of the slaughterhouse. “See if you can find out. They might be useful.”

“Will do.”

It’s easy enough to transverse across the rooftops into the slaughterhouse yard, even with the place crawling with City Watch (whether they're here as protection for or against the workers is up for debate, even if Daud has his suspicions). Getting into the actual building is somewhat more difficult, but Daud is able to reach the exterior door to the shipping bay through a bit of creativity and rapid-fire transversals. He’ll need a remedy before too long from expending the magic to get that high up, but it’s still a better idea than crawling in through the sewers or trying to sneak in the front door. He’s already going to have the smell of rot stuck to the inside of his nostrils for the rest of the day, he’d rather not get any on his clothes and trail it around with him as well.

When he opens the bay door, though, he’s met with loud, angry cheers from somewhere below him.

“Can anyone tell me how many on-the-job accidents have been reported so far this month?!” A woman is standing on a tall stack of crates, addressing a small crowd of men dressed in common clothes covered in spatterings of blood here and there. It seems Daud has found whoever is inciting Rothwild’s laborers to strike.

When her question is answered by more angry shouts, the woman has to raise her voice a little to be heard. “That’s right! Seventeen! We’re only ten days into the Month of High Cold and we’ve already had seventeen injuries reported! Now,  _ Mr.  _ Rothwild says that his slaughterhouse is perfectly safe.” She barks out a laugh. “Safe?! Does seventeen injuries in ten days sound safe to you gentlemen?!”

“NO!”

“No, it doesn’t! We have asked time and time again for some simple safety precautions to be put in place but does Mr. Rothwild listen?! Does he install those cheap metal safety railings? Does he pay to fix the locks that keep the large metal hooks from falling on our unprotected heads? No! He doesn’t even do something so simple as ensuring that his butchers aren’t running the slaughterhouse with impunity, that they aren’t allowed to threaten us or push us around as they see fit! He won’t even do something that would cost him  _ nothing _ ! He treats us like we are disposable, but let me ask you this, how many of those butchers know how to run the refinery? How many of them can coordinate shipments?”

The assembled workers shout something that sounds something like a negative response to which the woman says, “Exactly!” How she’s able to determine what the shouting means is absolutely lost on Daud.

“We are absolutely  _ vital _ to the function of this slaughterhouse, but we aren’t promised any degree of safety while we’re here. And if we are injured? What happens if we can’t work? Does Mr. Rothwild compensate us? Does he hold our jobs so we can at least have income when we return? No!” She starts pacing atop her makeshift stage. “If something happens to us while we’re here, we get  _ nothing _ . In fact, most injuries result in the injured party being  _ fired! _ ”

Movement on the other side of the warehouse catches Daud’s eye and he looks up just in time to see Billie disappear in a transversal. A couple seconds later, she appears beside him. “She’s good, isn’t she?” his lieutenant comments. “Almost has me wondering if the Whalers should unionize.”

Daud can hear the grin in her tone, so he just rolls his eyes while putting up a token effort at hiding his responding smile. “What do you want, a pension plan?” He jerks his chin at the woman still giving her speech. “Do we know her name?”

“Abigail Ames. She’s a foreman here, despite only starting a few months ago,” Billie says. “Evidently she got in good with Rothwild and climbed the ranks fast.”

“And now she’s trying to incite a strike.”

“So it would seem.”

“Hm.” Daud considers Ames for a moment longer. “It might not be a bad idea to keep an eye on her. Did you find anything else?”

“Rothwild is in his office, and it looks like someone is running experiments on designing some kind of electrocution device using one of those whale-oil-powered saws the butchers use.”

“Oh?”

“Found a few dead rats in cages in the meat locker, but that device might prove useful if Rothwild doesn’t want to cooperate.”

“It could. Might be less messy than breaking fingers.”

* * *

It’s convenient that all the accountants appear to have left for the day. No one is around to notice Billie locking all the doors to Rothwild’s office, nor to hear Daud roll a canister of chokedust where it detonates right under the slaughterhouse owner’s chair. While Rothwild is still coughing and dazed from the flashbang, Daud lashes some rope tight around his middle and arms to keep him securely in the chair. By the time Rothwild is in enough control of his senses to realize what’s happened, Daud already has him turned to face him.

To his credit, Rothwild doesn’t shout. He only hunkers down and glares at the assassin. “What is it you want that’s worth crossing a man like me?” he drawls, slow and dangerous-sounding to anyone else.

“Information,” Daud says, crossing his arms as Billie appears just a bit to his left. He watches Rothwild look from her display of magic and back to him before the recognition clicks, but his expression doesn’t change much. He’s still glaring openly at Daud like somehow he’s the most dangerous person in this room. “About a ship called ‘the Delilah.’ I want to know what’s behind the name.”

Rothwild snorts. “ _ That’s _ what you want? Fuck off, you bastard.”

Daud frowns, but he expected this. He gives Billie a nod and she transverses away.

“You don’t think a few magic tricks will be enough to get me to talk, do you?” says Rothwild. “You’re gonna have to do better than that.”

Daud doesn’t respond. Instead, he takes out one of his knives and examines it like he’s checking its sharpness.

Billie’s back a second later, carrying the deconstructed circular saw. The cutting parts have been removed and the exposed copper wiring has been wrapped around two metal clamps. 

“I found this downstairs in your meat locker, Mr. Rothwild,” Billie says, setting it down heavily on Rothwild’s desk. The way the man flinches suggests to Daud that he’s well aware of what it is. “To be honest, I didn’t know you were an inventor. Have you had the chance to test this at all?”

“You two think you’re going to tie me up in my own office, to my own chair, and make me talk with a few tickles from that rat zapper?” Rothwild spits. “That’s the kind of thing I pay your sister for, down at the Golden Cat. Do your worst.”

“If you insist.” Daud holds a hand out and Billie hands him the clamps. After a moment of internal debate, he attaches one to each of Rothwild’s hands. “If I had to guess, it’s probably not as powerful as something you might wire directly into the breaker box, but that just means we can keep going as long as we need. Do you want to revise your earlier answer?”

“Choke on your own spit.”

At Daud’s nod, Billie throws the switch on the device, leaving it on for a good five seconds, and to his surprise, Rothwild actually screams at the first shock.

“You owe me ten coin,” Billie says smugly while they give Rothwild the chance to catch his breath a little.

“So it seems.” Daud leans forward a bit to get closer to eye-level with Rothwild. “Who is Delilah?” he demands.

“Go suck the Outsider’s cock and fuck off!”

Daud scowls, but doesn’t look away. “Billie.”

The second shock lasts longer, and Rothwild still screams. Daud counts down the time in his head, waving for Billie to shut it off when he’s satisfied.

“If this doesn’t work, maybe we should feed you through your own factory?” Daud muses over Rothwild’s panting. “See if we can get oil out of your blubber.”

“Don’t they have a bigger one of these they attach the whales to?” Billie asks. “Maybe this one’s just too small.”

Rothwild laughs breathlessly. “Y-you know your work, I’ll give you that. We can talk this out, come to an agreement like businessmen.”

As he regards the man in the chair, Daud tilts his head slightly. “Why did you name it Delilah? Who is she?”

“Why the fuck do you care?” Despite how he’s beginning to shake, Rothwild tries his best to glare up at Daud. “And it wasn’t me. The previous owner named it after some broad, a sweetheart of his. Now piss off and leave me alone.”

“I think you can do a little better than that. Billie?”

“N-no, wait! Wai--” Billie cuts Rothwild off by throwing the switch on the device again.

When the screaming stops, Daud asks sharply, “Who was the previous owner?!”

“BARRISTER TIMSH!” Rothwild shouts. “All right?! It was Barrister Timsh! He told me the story, said she was an apprentice or something, grew up in Dunwall Tower, but she got kicked out and became a painter. She was proud, put on funny airs, and she caught his eye. But it… Don’t touch that switch, Void dammit! I’m talking, I’m talking!”

Billie takes her hands away from the device and crosses her arms. Daud can only imagine how much she’s enjoying this. 

“Go on,” he prompts.

“There was more to it than that. Worse. It was like she bewitched him or something, wormed her way into his mind to where he couldn’t think of anything else but her. He built that ship for her, gave her half his fortune, anything she asked. It got him scared. Imagine that, a man like him afraid!”

“How’d you get the ship?”

“He wanted to dump it, and I needed a business partner. So we made a deal.” Rothwild leans his head back against the chair, still out of breath. “Always meant to change the name. Wish I’d done it, too.”

“Anything else?”

“No! I swear, that’s all I know.”

“Good.” Daud sticks him with a sleep dart and watches as Rothwild goes limp.

“Timsh. He’s got a manor in the Legal District,” Billie says. Daud’s probably imagining it, but the set of her shoulders almost makes her look uncomfortable. “Shouldn’t take long to get there, if you want to go now.”

“May as well. Isn’t too late yet.”

“What should we do with him?” She jerks a thumb at Rothwild’s unconscious form. “Doesn’t seem smart to just leave him.”

“I’m open to ideas.”

Billie pauses to think. “I did see some shipments marked for transport to Tyvia. We could send him along in one of those.”

Daud frowns. “How in the Void is he getting shipments to Tyvia with the blockade?”

“They didn’t exactly look ‘legitimate.’”

That’s fair.

“Sounds good, then. See if you can’t track down a few scraps of food and water to pack in there with him."

“Will do.”

* * *

They’ve been anticipating someone ordering a hit on Timsh since the plague began and he began using his authority to snatch up the assets of its victims. Even since the Tower, they’ve had a scout watching the place more often than not. There’s been some kind of family dispute between him and his niece, and with what Rothwild told them, Daud is guessing it may have something to do with how Timsh just handed Delilah half his fortune. Noble heirs have a tendency not to like it when their inheritance goes somewhere other than to them, in his experience.

He sends Thomas and Billie off to meet with the niece while he stops by the sentry point to find out what they already know.

“Master Daud,” Dodge greets him with her left fist pressed to her chest and a slight nod.

“Dodge,” he acknowledges, settling in beside her. “What do we have?”

“Timsh is upstairs in his study. He has a meeting coming up with General Turnbull to discuss...something, I haven’t quite gotten what, over dinner tonight. Seems like a regular thing, though. He should be here in a couple hours.”

“Anything we can use?”

“Ugh, take your pick. The man’s a pig. But nothing that’ll probably work permanently, if that’s what you want. Otherwise, I’ve got blackmail material for weeks.”

“We’ll see what the niece says.” Daud notes a commotion on his left, the right-hand side of Timsh’s estate. “What’s going on down there?”

Dodge leans forward to get a clearer look. “Hm? Oh. Timsh has started evicting some of his neighbors. That noble’s been extra difficult. His wife was taken away a few days ago, and I think he actually broke a Watchman’s nose if Connor saw it right. I’m sad I missed it, but he’s been back a few times for some encore performances that have been pretty entertaining.” She tilts her head. “Though… Mm, they might be taking him to the Flooded District this time. Too bad.”

Daud watches as the noble appears to be having another scuffle with the Watch before being bodily led away. “What’s his name?”

“Wiles Roland. He’s been trying awfully hard to get back into his apartment, and he’s royally pissed at Timsh. Might be something worth looking into.” 

They don’t have to wait to find out much longer. Thomas appears on the roof after only a few more minutes.

“Master Daud.”

“Thomas.”

“Hi, Thomas!”

“Hi, Dodge.”

Even with her mask, Daud can tell the novice is grinning. This is probably the most excitement she’s gotten at this post in a while.

“What did the niece say?”

“She knows something about Delilah, but won’t tell us unless we bring her the Barrister’s mother’s will and find some way to get rid of him.”

“Did she specify how she wanted it done?”

Thomas hesitates. “Well… She said to kill him, but I think as long as he’s out of the way, it won’t be a problem.”

“Good. Do we know where the will is?”

“Oh! It’s locked in a chest in Timsh’s study, but he carries the key with him at all times,” Dodge supplies.

Well, at least they know where to find it. “All right, then. Thomas, where’s Billie?”

“She said she had to make a detour,” Thomas says. “She wasn’t sure how long she’d be, but she said that she’d meet up with us either here or at Rudshore.”

“Sounds about right…” Dodge mutters.

Daud gives a noncommittal grunt. “Keep an eye on Timsh, I’ll tug on the Bond if I need either of you.”

“We’ll let you know if anything changes, sir!” Dodge chirps.

“I’m sure. Which apartment belonged to the noble?”

“Number seven!”

“Number seven…” Daud repeats to himself as he transverses across the plaza. It’s easy enough to sneak across roofs and lever open a window to Roland’s former apartment.

Compared to most condemned buildings he’s seen, this one is still relatively nice. It’s still structurally sound, for one, with no wood rotting from damp, mold, or neglect. Most of the furniture is still present, too, but there’s an ostentatious lack of any ornaments or finery, like it’s already been looted. Daud activates his Void gaze, searching for what, if anything, Roland was so dead-set on getting out of here. There’s a rune behind the only intact painting, but besides that, there’s nothing. Then why…?

A notebook is sticking out from under the corner of a discarded mattress. When Daud picks it up, a key with the number ten etched on it falls out from between a set of pages. Frowning, Daud pockets it and flips through the notebook until he finds the spot where the spine bulges slightly from where the key had been sitting. There’s an official-looking paper tucked inside, too. Is this what Roland was after?

Daud skims the journal.

Oh. Now this is clever.

* * *

Daud watches from the large bay windows on the fourth floor while General Turnbull takes Timsh into custody on the street below. He should be satisfied; Timsh is no longer an issue and he’s gotten the will for Thalia, so she should tell him what she knows about Delilah and pay them, besides. It’s been a very productive day. All that’s left is the delivery.

But something doesn’t feel right. He takes the will back out to reread. Despite what Rothwild told him, Daud still finds it awfully strange that Timsh doesn’t name himself a beneficiary on his mother’s will. Instead, all of it is going to Delilah. It just doesn’t make sense.

Before he leaves, he searches Timsh’s personal rooms. He finds some disturbing evidence that Timsh is responsible for keeping his own mother in a prolonged coma, which would be excellent blackmail material if that hadn’t already been taken care of. There are some valuables that are easily pocketed, a rune, and a locked door Daud can hear another rune behind. As a precaution, he checks behind it with his Void Gaze, but only frowns at what he sees. Something human-shaped is giving off a very human-like glow despite being upright and completely stationary. Is it a mannequin? A statue? He’s never seen an inanimate object react like that. Normally he’d think it’s a dead body, but it’s posed and standing unsupported.

Sword in hand, he unlocks the door.

It’s an art studio. Pallets and bottles of paint are on nearly every available surface and the floor is covered in linen dropcloths. The strange object is a statue that eerily matches Emily’s description of Delilah. Daud circles it, frowning and inspecting it closely. Other than being unfinished, there’s nothing particularly odd about it, no reason it would glow like it did in his Void Gaze. When he touches it, he thinks he might feel a low hum of magic, but it’s difficult to be sure with the rune hissing not too far away. Pocketing it marginally quiets the sound and Daud is about to turn back to the statue when he notices a scrap of paper that had been underneath the rune. It’s a poem. He skims his eyes over it, intending to just bring it with him to read later, but Emily’s name catches his attention, prompting him to read it fully:

_ When Pretty Emily woke one day _

_ She saw the world a different way _

_ Her eyes now looked with a stranger’s guile _

_ Her dainty mouth smiled a stranger’s smile _

_ Her hands now worked a stranger’s wrath _

_ Her feet now walked a stranger’s path _

_ Emily fed, another grew stronger _

_ The stranger’s cravings drove her onward, _

_ And no one who looked on Emily’s face _

_ Ever guessed who ruled in Emily’s place _

Daud is not the kind of person to be easily shaken, he thinks, but the context provided by Emily’s dreams is enough to elevate this creepy poem into something altogether horrifying. It was bad enough when he thought Delilah was just trying to hurt Emily. If this is suggesting what it sounds like it is…

Oh, he is going to fucking  _ kill _ Delilah.

Snarling, he turns to the statue and glares with all the dangerous intensity his reputation suggests he should be able to muster. “You,” he hisses. He’s fully aware that trying to intimidate a statue isn’t going to get him anywhere, but with no one around to see him, he doesn’t particularly care. “What exactly are you playing at, witch?”

If Daud doesn’t think of himself as easily shaken, he certainly doesn’t think of himself as someone who’s easily surprised. But, he does think that anyone who expects a statue to respond when it’s spoken to is crazy. He most certainly isn’t crazy, but it does.

_ “I understand your curiosity,” _ the statue--no, Delilah--says, nonchalant and almost like she’s bored, of all things.  _ “I’m strange. I was a baker’s apprentice in Dunwall Tower, a friend to Jessamine when we were girls. Then, afterward, I made my name as a painter. Now, I’m obviously something much greater! I--” _

“Stay away from Emily Kaldwin!” Daud growls through gritted teeth, fist tight on the hilt of his sword. “I don’t know what you’re planning, but it stops  _ now.” _

The statue’s features shift into rage as Delilah is both shocked and furious at Daud’s interruption.  _ “Daud,” _ she says, looking down her nose at him.  _ “You think you can stop me? Pathetic old man, you can’t even begin to  _ dream _ of the power I wield.” _

“Maybe I wasn’t clear.” He steps closer, glaring. “If you even think about harming the girl, I will find you, and kill you and any others you have following you.”

She smirks.  _ “My sisters were very impressed by you, once upon a time,”  _ she says,  _ “but you don’t scare me, Old Knife. I ought to just kill you, but for their sakes I’ll give you a warning: stay away from me! Changes bigger than you are coming, and nothing you can do will stop me.” _

“A blade through the heart seems to stop most people.”

_ “You would know all about that, wouldn’t you, Killer of the Empress? It’s hard to fear an assassin who’s been afraid to kill since dearest Jessamine.” _

Daud sets his jaw firmly, but doesn’t rise to the bait. “You had better hope you’re right, because I  _ will _ find you.”

_ “You can try.” _ She folds her arms and waves dismissively.  _ “You’ve found Timsh, but he knows nothing and means nothing to me. Do to him what you will, he’s outlived his usefulness.” _ When she finishes speaking, the statue resumes its original pose and settles, the magic no longer active.

“We’ll see about that,” Daud grumbles, pocketing the poem and turning to leave.

His expression is still dark by the time he returns to the Whalers’ outpost if the way Dodge’s excited posture immediately closes when she sees him is anything to go by.

“Master Daud?” she asks. “Are… Are you okay?”

“It appears Timsh has been arrested, sir,” Thomas says. “Was that you?”

Daud rubs his eyes with his forefinger and thumb, trying to will some of his tension to leave. The last thing he needs is any of what he’s just found getting back to Emily. He’ll have to call a meeting with the captains, make sure the lot of them  _ swear _ to keep the information about Delilah to themselves. “I’m fine,” he says, “and yes. The noble, Roland, had a plan in place that worked rather conveniently. I acquired the will as well.”

“Good, do you want to come with us to speak to the niece?”

“Yes.” Before they make to leave, Daud realizes they’re still missing a fourth Whaler. “Where in the Void is Billie? Isn't she back yet?”

“I don’t--”

“Daud.” Billie appears on the rooftop behind them, unflinching in the face of Daud’s frown.

“Where have you been?” he snaps.

“I’m sorry, I was looking into something.”

“It better be important with how long you were gone.”

“Campbell is no longer High Overseer,” Billie says. “The Abbey has called the Feast of the Painted Kettles.”

“What?!” Daud and Thomas say in unison as Dodge gasps and exclaims, “Ohmygosh!”

“What happened?” demands Daud.

“That’s what I was trying to figure out. Evidently someone broke in and branded him a heretic.”

Not that Campbell doesn’t completely deserve that, because he does, but someone doesn’t just  _ break into _ Holger Square. He doesn’t even let his men get too close. Not anymore, at least.

“Who?”

Billie shakes her head. “No one saw or heard anything, but the Overseer suspected of assisting in Attano’s escape went missing at the same time. They’re also deploying music boxes.”

Daud bites back a snarl. Instead, he gruffly commands that, “Everyone go back to Rudshore. We’re done here.”

After Daud killed the Empress, the Outsider said that he was one of only nine Marked individuals in the world. It would be just like that black-eyed bastard to make Attano number ten.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rothwild's interrogation and the scene with Delilah were waaaay more fun to write than they should have been.
> 
> Feel free to pester me on [tumblr](https://donotfeedthewildauthor.tumblr.com/) that I can never seem to consistently remember to link :3


	12. In which Corvo gets scary

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha, sooo. There's been some updates to the warnings/tags. We've finally earned our "M" rating, y'all. CW for a little bit of torture of people who are awful anyway? I don't think it's particularly graphic, but??? Safe over sorry???
> 
> Thanks for all the comments and kudos from everyone. I really appreciate hearing what you guys think. And a special shout out to SeptemberSky for reading over a significant portion of this chapter for me :D

Without a constantly renewing rush of adrenaline, Corvo nearly falls asleep on the way back to the Hound Pits. When he and Samuel return to the pub, he hands Campbell’s black book over to Havelock and completely ignores the Loyalists’ attempts to debrief him in favor of going straight to bed. It’s nearly sunrise and since he can see Martin has returned in one piece, he lacks the ability to continue to care about anything besides sleep.

He fully expects to deal with all three of the leaders when he wakes up the next day. Instead, Samuel informs him that Martin has already left, taking the black book with him. Which is fine, Corvo tells himself. Martin is probably the only one of them who can decode it anyway, so it's probably best he keeps it with him. Samuel makes it sound like Martin is quickly cleaning up the mess Campbell left in his wake, and he'll return as soon as affairs are put in order. Fine. Corvo can wait a couple days.

Only Martin isn't back in a couple days. There are announcements that the Abbey has convened into the Feast of Painted Kettles to choose a new High Overseer after Campbell's fall from grace. (Havelock wasn't exactly pleased to find out what Corvo meant when he said Campbell was “dealt with,” but Corvo almost swears the servants, Samuel in particular, have been more relaxed around him since the news broke. It’s been nice, almost like he has friends.) When the conclave breaks and the meager celebrations begin, Corvo is too irritated at Martin's prolonged absence to care much about the announcements about the new High Overseer. (It isn't Campbell and that's all that matters, he thinks.)

When Martin returns clad in a red coat a week later, Corvo realizes that maybe he should have paid just a little more attention.

 _“He’s always had his sights set on the Abbey’s highest office,”_ the Heart sighs as Corvo watches Samuel arrive with the newly minted High Overseer from the window of his room.

“It could be useful, having an ally there,” Corvo mutters, but he isn’t sure whether he’s trying to convince her or himself.

The Heart gives a single beat, but otherwise doesn’t respond.

Downstairs, Havelock greets Martin with a hearty clap on his shoulder before steering him inside the pub. Corvo counts down from one hundred to give them a chance to finish exchanging pleasantries before joining them in the bar. The leaders are camped around their usual booth, heads together and voices uncharacteristically low.

“Did you decode it?” Corvo asks without preamble.

“I did,” Martin says slowly, not immediately turning to face him. Instead, he takes the black book and a few sheets of notes from his breast pocket and holds them back over his shoulder for Corvo to take. “You may not like it.”

“Why?” Corvo glares at the table before turning his attention to the notes, scanning over them for the information he actually cares about.

Martin furtively makes eye contact with Havelock before actually turning to look at Corvo. “She was put under the care of the Pendleton twins,” their own Pendleton practically flinches at the mention of his brothers, “and they’re supposed to have hidden her at the Golden Cat.”

Corvo stiffens. That… No, she has to be all right. She has to be. He saw her. It was in the Void, but…

“Is there anything else?” He tries to keep his voice even, but the muscles in his jaw clench involuntarily.

“From the book? Not really.” Martin shifts in his seat. “At least, not about Lady Emily. There’s plenty more about Burrows’ conspiracy and allies, but that’s something to worry about after she’s safe.”

Corvo couldn’t agree more.

“I can leave now,” he says, flipping idly through Martin’s notes if for no other reason than to appear less anxious than he actually is.

“Excellent, but there’s still the matter of Morgan and Custis Pendleton,” Havelock says. He and Martin turn to look at the younger Pendleton. “Not only are they controlling the Empress, but they’re also controlling the largest voting block in Parliament. They’ll need to be dealt with.”

“In their absence, you would retain their votes, yes?” Martin asks, ignoring how Pendleton has already gone pale.

“Y-yes, but--”

“We must all make sacrifices, Treavor,” Havelock says, stern and commanding. “As long as the Lord Regent controls Parliament, there will be no stopping him.”

“If he’s allowed to continue consolidating his power, it won’t matter whether he has his figurehead empress or not.” Martin’s tone is less harsh than Havelock’s, but Corvo still scowls in vague displeasure at the two of them. “The time for warnings and reasoning has passed. They’ve chosen their side.”

Pendleton fidgets, not entirely meeting anyone’s gaze, clearly feeling pressured. He looks at Corvo and the notebook still in his hands for the briefest moment, before staring back down at the table and his own folded hands. “Fine! Fine,” he waves dismissively in Corvo’s direction, “they’ll be at the Golden Cat tonight, most likely. They practically live there these days. Please do it before I change my mind.” He nudges Havelock until he stands then gets out of the booth himself. One hand is already searching for the flask in his pocket as he leaves, shouting for Wallace to fetch him some wine.

“Very well. Now that that’s settled…” Instead of sitting back down, Havelock approaches the bar to get himself a beer from one of the taps. “You should speak to Samuel about leaving. The sooner the better, if you don’t mind the time of day.”

Like Void is Corvo waiting until nightfall; he knows how to stay out of sight.

* * *

Corvo can feel Samuel watching him as he checks and rechecks his equipment during the boat ride, not that the boatman is obvious about it. His pistol and crossbow are loaded, he has extra sleep darts readily accessible just in case, his sword is sharp, and the folding mechanism works seamlessly no matter how many times he fidgets with it. All that remains is for him to affix the handful of bone charms he's found on his handful of outings from the pub to his bandolier, but he's reluctant to do so with Samuel watching.

“You seem tense,” Samuel notes. “Everything all right?”

Corvo nods once, then turns to look out across the river, running a thumb over the runes etched into a bone charm. It sings wordlessly, promising to help him stay quick and sure-footed, even if he has his weapons drawn. When he finally attaches it to the bandolier with some leather laces, the song quiets to a dull hum before it goes quiet all together and he feels something like his own magic seep into his muscles. He waits a moment to catch Samuel regarding him in his peripheral vision again, but when he doesn't say anything about the charm, Corvo relaxes and attaches the other useful ones he's found.

“I’ll get you as close as I can to the Golden Cat,” Samuel says as they approach Clavering, “but the Watch’s installed some of those Sokolov Watchtowers on Clavering.”

Corvo frowns. He hadn’t anticipated them being operational so soon, but he supposes Campbell’s branding made Burrows nervous. (Good, he should be nervous.) “Thanks for the warning.”

“Of course.” Samuel bends to pull a lever at his feet. “There’s supposed to be a lot of security at the Golden Cat, too, what with the Pendletons there and all. Do you got anything planned?”

He shakes his head. “Nothing solid yet. I’m open to suggestions.”

“Well, this is Slackjaw’s territory, he might have some ideas for gettin’ you inside, if he don’t kill you first.”

“Can’t imagine he’d do it for free.”

“Probably not, no.”

As they approach the tall reeds along the shore, Corvo pulls his hood up higher and adjusts his mask. Samuel gets out first and moors the _Amaranth_ by jamming its side against the rocks to keep it still. “I’ll stay here and keep an eye out for you and the little lady,” he says and reaches out a hand to shake Corvo’s. “Good luck. I know Emily must mean a lot to you.”

Corvo takes his hand. He appreciates the sentiment, but the words gnaw at the worry that has long settled into his chest. “Thank you. Stay safe, Samuel.”

“Oh, I doubt the Watch will give an old riverhand like me a second glance.”

Even though it can’t be seen behind his mask, Corvo frowns at Samuel. “I mean it. Get out of here if you have to.”

He can, however, see Samuel’s responding frown. “What about you?”

“I’d figure something out.”

Samuel looks at Corvo hard for a moment, like he’s trying to discern whether or not he’s being serious. Whatever he sees, Samuel gives a crooked grin and pats Corvo on the shoulder. “Hopefully it won’t come to that. Take care, Corvo.”

With a final nod, Corvo turns away and starts making his way towards Endoria Street, staying low to avoid the Watchtower now positioned at the intersection between it and Clavering. This was a good way to go to avoid the Wall of Light last time, and he’s hoping it still is. If nothing else, there are no Watchmen patrolling this far in gang territory, so Corvo doesn’t worry about sticking to the roofs and lampposts and just walks along the street, hood pulled up and his gaze downwards.

As he approaches Bottle Street, though, there are people out and about. They look like they’re from Slackjaw’s outfit, and they’re looking for something. While he stands back, weighing the pros and cons of approaching one of them and asking to speak to Slackjaw, one catches sight of him and makes the decision for him.

“Hey you!” one calls. He’s bald, as broad as Havelock, and about a head and a half shorter than Corvo. “Yeah, you, in the mask! Hey! My boss, Slackjaw, is lookin’ for you. He wants to have a word.”

Corvo tilts his head to the side, but approaches, curious. The thug gives him a brief appraisal, nods, and turns to lead him into the Dunwall Whiskey Distillery. Inside, more thugs eye Corvo, some muttering amongst themselves. Having so many people openly watching him is enough to make his sword hand itch.

 _“There is a strong drink made here,”_ the Heart murmurs. _“I tried it, once,”_ her voice is almost a grumble. _“Distilled from river krusts by the taste of it.”_

Her comment catches him off-guard. It’s enough to make him bite the inside of his cheek to keep from chuckling and distracts him from his discomfort. She beats once, firmly, and he almost gets a feeling of smugness from it. Had she meant to try to get him to relax?

No one stops Corvo and his guide as they enter the main building. They cut through the main production floor to the reserves, then through the tall shelves filled with barrels to an office tucked underneath a set of stairs.

“Boss, I found ‘im,” Corvo’s guide says, approaching a tall, lean man leaning over a desk.

He looks up and grins openly when he catches sight of Corvo. “Aye, now here’s a man out for murder if I ever seen one. Thank you, Crowley.”

The bald man, Crowley, nods and leaves them alone.

“Way I figure it,” Slackjaw says, stepping out from behind his desk, “only ones worth killin’ ‘round here’re those two Pendletons, down at the Golden Cat. I’m right, ain’t I?” Corvo doesn’t respond, only crosses his arms, but Slackjaw grins again, tapping a finger along the side of his nose. “I know I am. Slackjaw _knows.”_

“What’s it to you?”

“I may have a point of in’erest for you. You see, those Pendletons have been layin’ low there a while, and they’ve got all their security with ‘em. I may have a way to get you past all that, if you do somethin’ for me.”

Corvo shifts a little. “I’m listening.”

“Good, good. See, me and my boys’ve been makin’ bootleg elixir. Brings in a nice bit a’ coin, but the thing is, we need a bit of the real stuff to get it to work right. The real-real stuff is expensive, which is where the still comes in.” Slackjaw gestures to a copper still off to Corvo’s left and pats it like a prized blood-ox. “It’s cheaper to buy the reagents, and we’ve had a guy for that. Only, he’s decided I don’t pay ‘im enough. Someone told ‘im he’d get more coin sellin’ to a doctor who lives on Clavering, name of Galvani.” The gang leader shrugs dismissively in mock regret.

“Now, I’ve dealt with my former supplier and got a new one, but Galvani’s still got somethin’ _I_ paid for. My boys’re good in a fight, but this requires a more...subtle touch, if you get my meanin’. You get my reagent back from Galvani, and I can getcha a better way into the Golden Cat, ‘round their extra security.”

There it is. “What is it?”

“Straight to business, I like it. It’s a bottle of river krust oil. Nasty stuff, corrosive, but there’s a bit in the real stuff, too, and I can’t make another batch without it. What d’ya say?” He holds a hand out to Corvo to shake. “We got a deal?”

It sounds straightforward enough. Corvo tilts his head, considering Slackjaw and his offer. Stealing from one of the few doctors remaining in Dunwall doesn’t exactly sit well with him, but Slackjaw’s right about him needing a better way into the Golden Cat.

“Deal,” he says, shaking Slackjaw’s hand.

* * *

About forty-five minutes later, Corvo sets the bottle down heavily on Slackjaw's desk. It's large and the dark fluid inside moves like syrup. Climbing while carrying it had been mildly difficult.

“Ah ha!” Slackjaw rises from his chair and picks up the bottle to examine it. “Excellent. I knew you were the right man for the job.

“What's your other way into the Golden Cat?” He’s already spent more than enough time dawdling (almost two weeks thanks to Martin…), he wants to get moving and get Emily safe as close to right this very second as is physically possible.

“Don’t you worry. Slackjaw didn’t forget about our deal.” Slackjaw produces a key from a drawer in his desk and holds it out to Corvo. “This key’s to the Captain’s Chair Hotel. It’s been abandoned since the plague gutted this part o’ town. Its roof overlooks the Golden Cat. You can get in through there, just take the stairs to the top.”

Corvo takes the key and idly spins it in his fingers before pocketing it. “Thank you.”

Slackjaw grins. “No problem. Slackjaw never goes back on a deal, and he keeps a bargain better than them men who run the city. With that in mind, maybe we can help each other out again?”

As impatient as Corvo is, Slackjaw’s already been immeasurably helpful. “How?”

“I could get rid of the Pendletons for you,” he says, “quiet-like, and without killin’ ‘em.”

“And in return?”

“There’s this arts dealer, name of Bunting. He’s got particular tastes, or so I’ve been told by some of the ladies at the Golden Cat. Got some pretty fancy stuff in that big house of his, locked behind a big, fancy safe. And, he keeps a schedule; he should be at the brothel this afternoon. You manage to get me the combination for that safe of his, my masked friend, and I’ll take care of the Pendleton twins. You ain’t even gotta touch ‘em.”

Corvo considers Slackjaw’s proposal. He’s certain he can get the combination somehow, that isn’t the problem, the problem is how would Slackjaw get ahold of them in the first place, nevermind the question of what his method of “taking care of them” would be, exactly. Frowning behind his mask, Corvo folds his arms and glances down as if he’s inspecting his boots.

“That’s tempting, I’ll admit,” he says, then looks back at the gang leader, “but are you sure you could get to them? You said it yourself, the Golden Cat is swarming with security as long as they’re there.”

“I have my ways.”

At least he’s confident…? “They’d have to go away permanently.”

“Aye, I promise no one’ll ever see ‘em again.”

Corvo tilts his head slightly. “What would you do with them?”

Slackjaw smirks and idly scratches the side of his nose. “S’ppose it’s it’s only natural to be curious. They’ve got these rock mines, you see? Have hundreds of souls working down there, half a mile underground. I’m gonna shave their heads and cut out their tongues and put ‘em to work in one of their own stinkin’ mines! Make them see life from a whole new perspective.”

That’s about as good as a death sentence, and Corvo can’t seem to find it in himself to care too much (not that he tries very hard). “That will work. I’ll be back with your combination,” he says, and turns on his heel to leave.

“I’ll be lookin’ forward to it.”

* * *

Never. Again.

Corvo stuffs the scrap of paper with Bunting’s safe combination into a pocket, trying to shake off his discomfort. He should probably just be grateful that Bunting was still fully dressed, but _honestly._

With that over, he can turn his attention to finding Emily. He doubts (hopes) that they wouldn’t keep her in one of the rooms for patrons where she might be able to see or hear the goings-on. Still, he checks the locked rooms with his Dark Vision that have their red lights turned off, just to be sure, but all of them are empty.

 _“The plague swept through here,”_ the Heart murmurs eventually. _“There are still rooms that reek of death. The courtesans talk of closing the brothel to give time to clean them, but this new Madame won’t hear of it. She is not kind, not at all like the old one. They hope they can find some way to change her mind.”_

The mention of a Madame piques Corvo’s interest. She’d certainly know where in her establishment Emily is hidden. After a brief consultation with the map in the foyer, he goes to look for her office, and finds it empty. Perfect.

There are portraits of the courtesans along the walls, some with notes or lists of clients or even receipts pinned to the frames, and stacks of papers on the desks. When Corvo picks up a stack to flip through, he finds that she does have something of a filing system, saving him from having to turn over every single sheet of paper in his search. Even so, it’s a while before he finds something even vaguely promising. It's an unsent note meant for the Pendletons:

_Custis,_

_At least let me know_ _why_ _you’ve gone back on our deal. I was banking on the coin you promised me for housing the girl. If it’s an issue of security, I can assure you that we are more than capable of holding a ten year old, and I’ve told you and your brother that those rumors of plague were grossly over-exaggerated lies. If you’re worried about discretion, you both know that my girls know better than to talk._

_I can still clear out a room for her. Let me know, I might even be able to give you two a discount on your visits._

_\--Prudence_

Fear seizes in Corvo’s chest and he reads the note again. Is… Is she talking about Emily? She can’t be, Campbell’s book said she was here. Could Martin have mistranslated? Perhaps this is old? Corvo stuffs the note in a pocket and starts tossing the room, looking for anything he might have missed. He does indeed find a business ledger with some projections based off an assumed average monthly income, but there’s a line that’s been crossed-out hard enough to nearly tear the paper and so thoroughly that there’s no way for him to tell what it once said. When he flips forward, he doesn’t see anything new added into the actual reports.

Didn’t Campbell’s audiograph say he wasn’t entirely sure Burrows was telling him the truth about where Emily is being held? No, no, she has to be here. She can’t be anywhere else.

He wants to start his search over from the beginning, but there are voices coming closer. Corvo curses to himself and Blinks up and out of the office just as an older woman in overdone hair and make-up and a member of the City Watch come into view.

“You _have_ to give me notice when they switch to a different room! I need time to make sure my men are in position.”

“Oh please, officer, it isn’t as though an assassin is going to break into the bathhouse. Morgan and Custis are perfectly safe,” the Madame scoffs. (Ohh, the irony.) “Do try and relax. I can always send you one of the girls, if you’d like?”

She and the Watchman part ways, him stalking off towards the main room of the Cat while she turns into her office. Corvo sneaks after her and wraps an arm tightly around her throat, choking her out to keep her from raising an alarm about the state of her office. When he lays her down, he can feel the Heart pulse.

 _“She learned long ago not to grow fond of any of the girls,”_ she says.

“Jessamine.” He slides a hand into his jacket to pull her out, holding her gently as he points her in the general direction of the unconscious Madame. “Where is she hiding Emily? What does she know?”

The glass window glows brightly as she pulses, thinking. _“She… They promised her a fee, for keeping the princess hidden for them. When they broke the deal, she started charging them more, to make up for the lost coin.”_

Oh no. No, no, no... “Can you tell me where Emily is?” It’s all he can do to keep control of his rising panic.

_“She is too far for me to see.”_

“Jess, _please…_ ”

The window glows again. _“I’m… sorry… I cannot see her.”_ (Is it just wishful thinking, or does she actually sound pained?)

He screws his eyes shut and pushes up his mask to rub them. The scene he saw in the Void showed Emily safe, the Heart said she’s found friends she trusts, that can’t have changed. Can it? It’s only been a few weeks. So much can happen in a few weeks, but…

Corvo takes a deep breath to calm himself. This isn’t the time to let his emotions get the better of him. Emily needs him to find her, and it’s clear that Campbell’s journal was wrong. She isn’t at the Golden Cat (maybe that’s a blessing, he should try to focus on that), but maybe the Pendleton twins still know where she is.

He puts the Heart back into his pocket and pulls down his mask. Only one way to find out.

* * *

Walking through the distillery with all of Slackjaw’s men staring at him was uncomfortable the first time, nevermind the second. Now that Corvo’s all out of his allotted patience for the day, he skips right over being polite and Blinks inside unseen. He keeps up high and out of sight until he finds Slackjaw overlooking the production floor. More out of self-preservation than courtesy, Corvo Blinks where Slackjaw can see him, off a bit to his left. The gang leader is impressively unperturbed and just levels his gaze at Corvo as if there was nothing out of the ordinary about his entrance.

“Come with good news, I hope?”

Corvo takes the paper with the combination out of his pocket, but he doesn’t immediately hand it over. “I have one condition.”

Slackjaw doesn’t attempt to hide his displeasure, frowning openly and crossing his arms. “Best not be goin’ back on our deal, now.”

“I’m not.” Corvo hazards a step closer, still holding the paper up near his shoulder. “But what I needed at the Golden Cat isn’t there. My condition is that you let me talk to the Pendletons. Before you cut out their tongues.”

He doesn’t miss the way Slackjaw runs a hasty reappraisal of him. “What kinda talk?”

Corvo shrugs, trying to appear nonchalant. “Not the kind that’ll make them any less fit to work.”

Slackjaw smirks and runs a hand along his chin. “And you’re sure it’s them who’ve got what you’re lookin’ for?”

Corvo nods once.

“All right, then. S’ppose Slackjaw can accommodate you. But I’ll be stickin’ around. Just to make sure you don’t kill ‘em.” He holds his hand out to Corvo, either to shake or to get the combination.

Having Slackjaw present will be less than ideal, but Corvo doubts he’d be able to demand any further changes. He holds out the combination. “Deal.”

Slackjaw takes it, looking very pleased. “Perfect. Now, if you don’t mind, sit tight for a spell and me and some of the boys’ll bring those Pendletons by for your little ‘chat.’”

He adjusts his suspenders, picks up a cleaver, and turns towards the yard. Corvo follows him out, hanging back a bit as Slackjaw shouts to rally some of his men, a few of which are clearly surprised to see Corvo’s returned without their notice. Among them is Crowley, whose surprised expression is quickly replaced by something rather smug. Slackjaw wrangles their collective attention back to him easily when he informs them they’re going to make a visit to the Golden Cat to call on the Pendleton twins. They leave in a mob, only a few men left behind to keep an eye on the distillery, and Corvo waits.

And waits.

When pacing gets boring, he Blinks up onto the pipes along the walls to get to a roof where he sits and checks over his equipment. He’s able to keep a watch on the entire yard from here, but it doesn’t do much for his anxiety. Maybe he should have gone with them, or at least followed behind? It would be better than just sitting here, at least then he’d be doing something. What’s taking them so long to get back, did they run into trouble? Void, if Slackjaw can’t--

He can hear the mob returning before he sees it. They’re raucous in a way that settles Corvo’s nerves ever so slightly. It means they were successful. Some of the first men who come stumbling back look to be half drunk on whiskey they must have carried with them, then comes Slackjaw, then a larger group knitted tight together. It isn’t until they get closer to the distillery proper that Corvo can see they’re carrying two men, bound and heads covered by sacks. With the amount of mud on their fine clothes, it looks like they’ve already been dropped a few times. Even though they’re still struggling and giving muffled shouts like they’re gagged, Corvo can’t imagine that it’s anything more than a token effort at this point. All their money and status won’t save them now.

“Put ‘em in the storeroom, lads,” Slackjaw drawls. His cleaver is tucked into his belt and he’s picked up a long stick from somewhere that he taps casually on one shoulder. “Gently, now!”

As the thugs walk off, chuckling, Corvo Blinks down beside Slackjaw, who grins.

“Hope you don’t mind, but the boys’ve already roughed ‘em up a little,” he says.

Corvo gives a slight shrug and folds his hands behind his back. Even if he wasn’t wearing his mask, he’s long perfected the art of remaining stoic.

When it’s clear he isn’t going to give a verbal reply. Slackjaw rolls his shoulders and motions for Corvo to follow. Inside, one man is holding a crank wheel in place while the Pendletons are deposited on the hard floor inside a little storage area. When one goes to pull off the sacks, Slackjaw whistles and shakes his head.

“All right, I’ll take it from here,” Slackjaw says as he takes his underling’s place, holding the crank that keeps the heavy metal door open. “You lot clear out, Slackjaw’ll get you when he’s ready.”

There isn’t another door into the storeroom besides the one attached to the crank, but before Corvo can express any discomfort or concern about being shut in, Slackjaw puts the stick he’d been carrying through the handle of the crank and braces it against the wall to keep the mechanism in place. Corvo stares at it, waiting for it to give, but the fix holds.

“As requested,” says Slackjaw, gesturing towards the twins.

Corvo nods, and steps forward to rip the bags off the Pendletons’ heads. They both immediately start trying to shout at him from behind their gags (with about as much success as one might expect) despite Corvo’s mask staring down at them, but go silent when Corvo’s sword unfolds, the point scratching into Morgan’s throat ever so slightly.

“I’m going to remove the gags,” Corvo says, voice low and quiet, “and you are going to answer my questions.”

Morgan swallows hard, staring at the sword, and Custis glares up at Corvo. When their gags are out, Custis immediately starts shouting again.

“If you think for one second that you’re going to get away with this--!” He stops abruptly when Corvo’s sword points at his nose.

“Where is the princess?”

“Just who in the Void--”

“Emily Kaldwin,” Corvo raises his voice only a little to be heard. “Where is she?”

Custis falters and glances at his brother for a second before looking back to Corvo. “How would we know? She’s been missing for almost six months!”

“You’d have better luck asking that Serkonan bastard Attano--”

It’s the wrong answer. Corvo informs them of this by kicking Morgan hard in the shin, making him shout and hiss in pain.

He grabs Custis by the front of his shirt and hauls him to balance on his bound feet, forcing him to look at the eyes of Corvo’s mask. It distracts him enough that Corvo doesn’t think he notices when he folds his sword and puts it away. “Where is she?”

“We told you, we don’t--” The punch Corvo throws at his jaw splits his lip. Custis shouts, more blood staining his teeth like the blow made him bite his tongue.

“Burrows sent her to you,” Corvo’s tone brooks no argument; it’s a statement of fact, not a question. “Campbell was told she was at the Golden Cat, but she isn’t. Where is she?”

“You--you’re the madman who broke into Holger, aren’t you?” Morgan accuses. “You bastard, do you have any notion of what--SHIT!” He stops with a cry when Corvo kicks him again, missing his shin. Instead, his heavy boot makes solid contact with his kneecap.

“Tell me where she is!” Corvo growls, shaking Custis a little. The noble has enough wherewithal to respond by spitting blood at him, but Corvo just responds with another punch to the face. (He really should thank Cecelia for finding sturdy gloves for him; he wasn’t looking forward to the prospect of splitting open his knuckles. Probably shouldn’t tell her the context, though...)

“Fine.” Corvo releases Custis’ shirt, letting him slump into a pile at his feet. To his credit, Morgan actually sounds concerned for his brother’s wellbeing. Corvo gives Slackjaw a look over his shoulder. “How many fingers does it take to hold a pickaxe?”

Slackjaw smirks. “Hmm… As long’s they got two and a thumb on each hand, I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

Either the twins don’t pay attention to their exchange or they don’t realize the implications of it because they look surprised when Corvo lifts Morgan by his upper arm, turning him so that his front is pressed against the covered crates behind them. Morgan shouts and struggles when he grabs hold of the little finger on his left hand.

“What in the Void do you think you’re doing?!”

“Unhand him right now!” Custis tries his best to sound authoritative, but the effect is lessened by the quickly rising swelling on his lower face.

As his response, Corvo bends the first joint of Morgan’s finger backwards with his thumb. There’s a popping, crunch sound under his screams of pain and Custis’ shouts to leave him alone.

“Each finger has three joints,” Corvo says with forced calm, “and we’ve determined that you only need six fingers. So, between the two of you, that’s twenty-four potential breaks. After that, we can start removing fingers.”

“You f-fucking lunatic!” Morgan hisses through gritted teeth.

“Maybe.” Corvo leans a little closer to the back of Morgan’s head as he adjusts to hold him against the crates by gripping the back of his shirt. “Tell me where you’ve hidden Emily Kaldwin, or I break the next joint.”

“We haven’t hidden her anywhere!” Morgan shouts. He screams again when Corvo breaks his finger at the middle joint.

“See, now I know that’s wrong. Try again.”

“It’s the truth!” Custis snarls. “We don’t fucking have her, now let us go!”

Corvo just bends back the last joint in Morgan’s finger and closes his eyes as he waits for him to stop screaming. For all that it matters, he’d hoped they would tell him where Emily is before he got this far. (And he knows it doesn’t matter, he’s still _doing_ it.)

“Damnable--!” Custis tries to kick Corvo’s leg out from under him, but ends up hitting his brother as Corvo drops him to Blink up on top of the crates. Custis stares at him, eyes wide. “H-heretic!” he manages. When Corvo hops back down and picks him up by his shirt again, he sputters, “The--the Abbey will have your head! I’ll see to it, I’ll--!”

“Unless you’re telling me where you’ve put the princess,” Corvo shoves Morgan out of the way with his foot and turns Custis so he can get at his finger next, “I don’t want to hear it.”

“We’ve told you we don’t _know!”_ Morgan practically sobs. “We never got her, she’s probably _dead_ in...in a sewer somewhere, I don’t know what--” He’s cut off by Custis’ scream and shrinks back a little.

“For your sake, she had better not be,” Corvo snarls, fist tightening on Custis’ shirt. Emily can’t be dead, he’s seen her. It’s been weeks, but…

“Why do you even _care?!”_ Custis says through tightly gritted teeth. “It’s not--” Corvo can’t see his face, but he imagines the realization of who the man interrogating him must be has finally hit. “It’s _you,_ isn’t it?”

“Outsider’s eyes,” says Morgan, staring up at Corvo. “We...we didn’t--we weren’t part of the planning! Burrows just…”

“Let me guess, it was his idea and you just went along with it?” Corvo has absolutely no sympathy.

“Exactly!” Custis finally stops trying to struggle out of Corvo’s grasp, instead trying to look at him over his shoulder. “We were just supposed to hold onto the girl, that’s it, but--”

“He changed the plan!” Morgan says quickly, almost pleading. “He...He’s crazy, he thinks that if the Kaldwins are gone, he’ll be able to get Parliament to make him Emperor! We didn’t want to kill her, I swear!”

“You weren’t even supposed to be _back_ yet, we didn’t know he’d blame you!”

“But if we said anything, the entire Empire would think we had something to do with it!”

“Where is EMILY?!” Corvo shouts, breaking the next joint in Custis’ finger, if only to remind them of why they’re here.

The scream breaks into a cry of, “WE DON’T KNOW!” Custis sobs pitifully and presses his face to the dingey tarp. “We’d tell you if we knew, I swear, but we don’t know where she is! The bastard never delivered her! We waited and waited and Burrows kept asking, but he never showed!”

 _“Who?”_ Corvo hisses, grip slowly tightening like he’s going to break the final joint in Custis’ finger.

“DAUD!” both the twins shout.

“It was Daud!” repeats Morgan, frantic.

“He’s the one Burrows hired for the job, he was supposed to deliver her dead or alive for us to kill, but he never did!”

“We never even saw her, if anything’s happened to her it’s on him!”

Corvo drops Custis and Morgan tries to nudge himself forward to check on him. It’s then that he’s happy for his mask because it hides his own wide eyes as he suddenly realizes _why_ those coats with Emily in the Void looked familiar. They were the kind of heavy industrial coat workers wear in whale oil refineries, the kind Daud and his Whalers are supposed to wear, the _exact_ same kind with an armband that the people in vapor masks were wearing when they attacked the Tower.

He didn’t get a good look at the leader’s face, even though he didn’t wear a mask, but Corvo had assumed who he was. The Knife of Dunwall is the only assassin in the city with a reputation for black magic, and that’s the only explanation Corvo can come up with for the way the assassins fought, appearing and disappearing like shadows. He’s supposed to be the best. If he has a contract on you, nothing in the world or the Void can save you. Of course that would be who Burrows would hire to kill Jessamine.

And he has Emily.

Wordlessly, Corvo turns on his heel and leaves. He’s gotten what he wanted; Slackjaw can do whatever he wants with the Pendletons as far as he’s concerned. A handful of Bottle Street thugs clamber out of the door, trying to look like they weren’t just eavesdropping, but Corvo doesn’t particularly care. He needs a chance to calm down and get some air before he goes back, empty-handed, to Samuel.

The thugs leaning on the handrail by the door jump at the sight of him and are quick to give him a wide berth that Corvo is thankful for. He leans over the handrail and pushes his mask up just enough to breathe. Daud has Emily. The Knife of Dunwall, the man who killed her mother in front of her, has his little girl. How…? That scene in the Void makes even less sense now than it did before. She looked _happy_ and _safe_ and the girl she was with was just a teenager. Is she the child of one of Daud’s men? Did Daud give Emily to someone else? Who? Why? And why haven’t they come forward? There’s ostensibly a handsome reward for any information that leads the authorities to her recovery, and it’s not that Corvo’s particularly upset that she’s been kept out of Burrows’ grasp, it just doesn’t make _sense._ How is he even going to find her? No one’s found Daud’s hideout, where should he even begin to look? Does he honestly think he can sneak up on a hoard of assassins? Even if he has powers now, they do, too. They’d see him coming from a--

Someone taps him on the shoulder, and Corvo nearly reaches for his gun when he sees Slackjaw, holding a box of cigarettes and leaning casually on the handrail next to Corvo. He raises an eyebrow and gestures with the box again, clearly offering him one.

“You look like you need it,” Slackjaw says.

Corvo’s eyes flick between his face and the box before he pushes his mask up a little more (what does it matter? Slackjaw already knows) and takes one of the cigarettes. Slackjaw produces a matchbook from a pocket and hands that to Corvo as well. When the cigarette is lit, Corvo hands the matches back with a muttered, “Thanks.” A moment later, he hears another match get struck beside him as Slackjaw lights his own cigarette and settles in beside Corvo to watch his men meander and patrol (as far away from Corvo as they can get without leaving their posts). Corvo can hear the closest pair to him muttering to each other, but he doesn’t look up or give any other indication that he’s listening.

“Word is,” the first says, “he’s like a phantom, with an army of shadows in front of him.”

“You mean Daud?” Clearly these were two of the ones eavesdropping. “Ain’t he just another boss?”

“No, no, people say he uses black magic, that he’s been marked by the Outsider himself. He’s supposed to be able to cut your throat from across the room.”

“You sound afraid.”

“And you’re _not?”_

Corvo exhales heavily, breathing smoke from his nose. When he glances at Slackjaw, the gang leader is doing an excellent job of watching Corvo without looking directly at him.

“You don’t seem surprised,” Corvo states.

Slackjaw shrugs and exhales smoke. “You’ll be goin’ after the Knife next, I expect?”

Corvo nods. “You wouldn’t happen to know how to find him, would you?”

“‘Fraid not. Typically, he’s the one what finds you.” He takes another drag from the cigarette. “Had a contract on me for a while now, but I haven’t had any trace of his men ‘round the distillery in months. Used to leave bits here and there, let me know he’s watchin’. But since the Empress died…” He gestures the mime for a puff of smoke. “Nothin’.”

Corvo grunts, thinking. “People have to be able to contact him to hire him. How do they do that?”

Slackjaw gives another shrug. “Typically do my own work. There’re supposed to be dead drops all over the city, but they change.” After a moment, he adds, “I can have my boys keep an ear out, see if they hear anythin’.”

“Thanks.” He assumes Slackjaw won’t give him any information for free, but he doesn’t care.

“You’ll owe me,” Slackjaw confirms.

For some reason, that gets Corvo to chuckle. He finishes the cigarette, crushes the butt under his heel, and picks it up off the ground. “Good working with you,” he says, pocketing it.

Slackjaw chuckles, too. “If you ever need steady work, come see me,” he says.

Corvo shoots him a smirk before lowering his mask and leaving, mildly amused at how the gang members continue to stay far away from him.

Outside the distillery, he hears a noise. It’s so low that he almost thinks he’s imagined it, but then he hears it again, a shuffling, almost popping sound that he’s definitely heard before. Once. At the Tower.

How convenient for Daud’s men to find him, save him the effort?

Corvo ducks back into the alcove where the door to the distillery is, looking around for any sign of the assassins. Nothing presents itself, so he Blinks up onto an abandoned storefront, then onto a roof across the street, keeping low, and activates his Dark Vision.

There’s someone in the abandoned apartment on his left, and what might be someone else across the street, but they move out of range for him to see before he gets a good look. He peeks through the window with his normal vision and sees someone in a grey coat and vapor mask. A Whaler.

Before he’s entirely conscious of it, he starts to reach for his sword, but stops. Their coat is different from the ones who attacked the Tower. It might be a meaningless detail, or it could actually be someone different. Besides, he didn’t even kill Campbell. What would it say about him if he killed this person for their association with Daud? He could probably justify it, he could ask the Heart and maybe they do have innocent blood on their hands, but is that what he wants? Revenge over justice?

The Heart beats, gently, the first thing he’s felt from her since he left the Golden Cat. He lets go of his sword and rests his hand over her instead.

Then he comes up with a plan.

There are three Whalers, all in grey, and all camped around Bottle Street, he discovers. There’s the one he first saw in the abandoned apartment and the one he thought he saw across the street in another apartment that’s stocked with a few weapons and supplies, like it’s an outpost for them. The third is on the roof next to the outpost, above where an older man tries to persuade another man to buy something he’s scavenged. They appear out of nowhere, make a (legitimately impressive) flip, and land silently, perched above the two men like they’re listening to their conversation.

Corvo chokes out the one in the outpost first. They turn away from the metal balcony for a moment, and he takes the opportunity to Blink up behind them. Next, he goes after the one in the apartment across the street while they’re also focused on the transaction. Corvo briefly considers leaving them in the apartment he found them in, but the pile of shrouded plague corpses in the corner changes his mind (he’s already decided he’s not going to kill them, that would be counter-intuitive). Instead, he Blinks back to the Whalers’ outpost and dumps them next to their compatriot where Corvo left them in the far back corner. The one on the roof is slightly more difficult to sneak up on; they’re facing the direction Corvo would have to come from. He considers using a sleep dart, but is worried about them falling off the roof if he isn’t there to catch them quickly. Finally, when the transaction below them finishes and the gang member walks away, the Whaler turns around to observe the alley on the other side of the roof. Once they’re unconscious, Corvo puts them over his shoulder and carries them to toss in the pile with the other two.

They’ll all three probably have bruises when they wake up, but no permanent damage.

Before he leaves, Corvo hunts down some paper to write a note that he leaves pinned to the front of the third Whaler’s jacket:

_Tell Daud that Corvo Attano wants to talk to him in the Old Port District._

He doesn’t say why. If Daud does have Emily, he’s probably been expecting this sooner or later. For a moment, he considers adding on a threat for if Emily’s been harmed in any way, but he figures that probably goes without saying. No, if anything has happened to her, Corvo will kill him. He doesn’t care what Daud’s supposed to be able to do, if he has the same or greater powers than Corvo does. If _anything_ has happened to Emily, not even the Outsider will keep Daud safe from him.

Corvo Blinks back down to the street, proceeding back down Endoria to get back to Samuel, keeping to the shadows. Despite the deserted street, he can’t help the feeling of being watched. He stops, switches to his Dark Vision, and looks around. He doesn’t see anyone. When he listens, all he can hear is the whirring of the Watchtower on Clavering. No footsteps, no magical teleporting, nothing. If the apartment where he found her last time wasn’t shuttered, he might have written it off as Granny Rags. The thought of her keeping an eye on him makes him inexplicably shudder and he presses on.

Samuel looks up from the small fire he’s built when he hears Corvo’s footsteps. The old boatman perks up expectantly when he recognizes Corvo, only to turn puzzled when he sees that he’s alone.

“Is… Did you find Emily?”

Corvo hesitates, then shakes his head. “Campbell’s book was wrong.”

“Do you know where she is, then?”

“No.” It isn’t entirely a lie, because he doesn’t know where she is. He still hasn’t come up with what he’s going to tell the Loyalists, but he does know that he doesn’t want to mention Daud until he has something more. Exactly why, though, he has no idea. “I dealt with the Pendletons. Martin can go through the book again, our Pendleton can see if his brothers left any clues, and I’ll keep looking.”

Samuel nods, looking concerned. Corvo helps him douse his fire and they climb into the _Amaranth_ to return to the Hound Pits. They’re both quiet for a long time, until Samuel reaches out to lightly touch Corvo’s shoulder.

“We’ll find her, Corvo,” he says gently. “I know we will.”

Corvo nods, feeling something in his chest unclench, just a little. They will. One way or another. “Thank you.”

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have had. This chapter. Planned. For MONTHS!
> 
> We're almost there, guys. We almost have Corvo and Daud in a room together, I'm not just stringing you along, I swear (i'm so sorry, it was never supposed to take this long to get here h e l p)
> 
> There's also going to be a deleted scene going up here in a little bit featuring the Whalers Corvo just knocked out (+Quinn)


	13. In which everyone is on edge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> !!!!!
> 
> Just going to preface this with I'm not 100% sure when I'll be able to update next? I'm supposed to finish an entire draft of my graduate thesis by the end of February and I have an introduction. Doin' great.  
> Also, I got excited and probably should have edited this more. No betas we die like men, right?

Daud’s lips are pressed in a thin line as he listens to Quinn’s report. Having confirmation that Attano is alive is good, yes. It’s the manner of that confirmation he doesn’t like. He glances at Connor, Dodge, and Pavel where they stand next to Quinn, still in various stages of bleariness. Pavel’s the worst off by far. He’s half-supported by Connor’s shoulder, but is clearly trying to be discreet about it. Dodge has a grip on the back of his coat, like she’s worried he’s going to tip forward.

It could have been worse, Daud tells himself. Attano could have just as easily killed them instead of knocking them out. No one would have been surprised if he had, but just the thought that three of his men  _ (novices  _ at that, Void…) came so close to being killed for his mistakes is deeply unsettling. He should be protecting them.

“Sir?”

Quinn’s voice breaks him out of his reverie and he nods, rubbing his tired eyes. He needs more coffee, he was only half listening to her. Still, he thinks he got the most important details. Right now, he’s much more concerned with the novices’ health.

“None of you are hurt?” he asks.

“No, sir,” Pavel says.

“Throats are a little sore, but…” Dodge trails off with a shrug.

“We’re fine,” says Connor.

Still… “You should have Fisher check you over anyway.” Daud will just keep worrying otherwise. “Can you get there yourselves?”

When he realizes everyone is looking at him, Pavel stands up straighter. “What? I’m fine.” He doesn’t see Dodge looking pointedly at Daud. When she knows she’s gotten their master's attention, she nods to let him know she’ll make sure Pavel gets to the infirmary in one piece. Assuming, of course, they make it there before Akila intercepts them. She won’t believe her twin’s all right until Fisher clears him.

“Come on, then,” Dodge says, tugging on Pavel’s jacket. Probably only because it’s her, the boy just nods and lets her lead him from Daud’s office without protest.

When Connor doesn’t move to follow, Daud frowns. “You, too. Your parent will be worried.”

Connor makes an effort to hide behind his bangs and shrink down, sheepish. It’s almost comical with how lanky he’s gotten from his most recent growth spurt. “...You don’t need anything else from me, sir?” When Quinn fails to stifle a giggle, he shoots her a half-hearted glare.

“No, you’re fine.”

“Are you sure?”

Daud can’t help smiling a little at his reluctance, but it’s hard to blame him for it. Connor’s sixteen, well past the age where he’d see Fisher’s fussing as anything but embarrassing. The physician  _ has _ gotten better about it, though. If only a little.

“Go.” Daud turns to his target board to pin Attano’s note to it. “You know he’ll only be worse the longer you wait.”

Connor groans, but clearly agrees because he transverses away.

“Can I tell Emily we found Lord Attano?” Quinn asks, hopeful. At Daud’s nod and grunt of assent, she gives a little squeal and transverses up and out of Daud's office to find her friend. It’ll be the one bright spot in this whole mess of a day, being able to let Emily know her father is definitely alive.

With a sigh, Daud sinks into his desk chair and holds his head in his hands. Those novices  _ should _ be dead. He doesn’t understand why Attano didn’t kill them and the only explanation he can come up with, that a live messenger tends to deliver messages more effectively than a dead one, is flimsy at best. Maybe the point is that he  _ could _ have killed them? None of them saw or heard anything before Quinn shook them awake. That the Lord Protector didn’t find Quinn, too, probably has more to do with luck or the bone charm she carries than anything else. It could easily have been hours before anyone knew anything about what happened to their patrol.

Imagining that worry and fear twists at his gut more than he cares to admit. They’ve lost patrols before, but never on such a routine and low-risk route, and never  _ kids. _ Fuck…

He’s so absorbed in his own thoughts that Daud doesn’t notice the air around him has significantly dropped in temperature until it’s enough to actually make him shiver. When he looks up, he’s almost startled to see the Outsider casually leaning a hip against the edge of his desk, arms crossed as he regards him.

_ “I’m not sure whether I should be insulted or concerned that it took you so long to notice me,” _ the Outsider muses.  _ “Are you well, old friend?” _

Daud glares at the black-eyed bastard, refusing to acknowledge that question. “What do you want and why couldn’t it have waited? I’m busy.”

_ “Yes, I see.” _ The Outsider disappears and reappears at the target board, looking closely at Attano’s note.  _ “I wasn’t sure how long it would be before you fell asleep. Besides, you and I both know you haven’t been sleeping enough. It would be cruel to disturb what little you do manage.” _

“Thoughtful of you.”

The Outsider chooses to ignore Daud’s sarcasm as he so often does.  _ “You’ve made progress, I see.” _

“No thanks to you. Why didn’t you tell me Delilah was marked?”

_ “You know that would be cheating.” _

Daud huffs. “And what about Attano?”

_ “What about him?”  _ The Outsider does a poor job of feigning innocence and it just irritates Daud more.

“You marked him, too.”

The Outsider doesn't respond, only hums.  _ “I've marked many over the years.” _

He should know better than to expect a straight answer from the Outsider. Fine. “Will you tell me how many there are right now?”

_ “Eight others, besides you.” _

That can’t be right. Attano should make ten. Unless… “Are they the same eight as six months ago?”

The Outsider gives a pleased grin, turning back towards Daud.  _ “Not all of them, no.” _ He taps the sketch of the Lord Protector with a knuckle, though it doesn’t make a sound.  _ “I came to warn you. Use caution with how you make contact with Corvo Attano.” _

“You make it sound as though I wasn’t.”

_ “Oh you would, but you’re focusing on the wrong thing. Mind who you send, there could be unintended consequences.” _

Daud crosses his arms. “Don’t suppose I could persuade you to elaborate?”

_ “I’ve already given you several hints in this game,” _ the Outsider says.  _ “To do more would make it too easy.” _

“This is another game now?”

The Outsider’s expression shifts from its usual stoicism to something that might be called disappointment, or even sadness if it were on literally any other person.  _ “You really should endeavor to sleep more, Daud. You are human, after all.” _

Before Daud can respond, the Outsider disappears and his office gets almost instantly warmer. Sighing, Daud rests his head on his desk.

“Thanks for the unnecessary reminder,” he mutters to no one.

* * *

Corvo didn’t say in his note where in the Old Port district he wanted Daud to meet him. He supposes it might be too much to hope that he’ll see Daud before the assassin sees him, but he hopes anyway. Still, his sword is never far from his hand and he barely sleeps the night he should have brought Emily to the Hound Pits. He’s too on edge, looking up at every little sound or feeling that he’s being watched (which he is, if the way the mark on his hand occasionally prickles and hums is any indication).

As soon as the sun starts to rise, Corvo is up and out of bed, dressed in his gear. It’ll be a couple hours before Lydia gets breakfast started, but he feels as though he’ll vibrate out of his skin if he stays still for even one more second. He needs to keep on patrol for any sign of Daud or his assassins. Hopefully, they’ll answer him sooner rather than later.

It’ll be easy enough to hide what he’s doing from the Loyalists. They’re all scrambling after Corvo told them Emily wasn’t at the Golden Cat. Martin is either supremely irritated or incredibly stressed (or both) by the idea that he might have missed something in Campbell’s book. Worse, Corvo thinks, if the Overseer thinks he mistranslated. He must have gone over his notes a dozen times in the bar downstairs. Last Corvo saw of him, he was arguing with Havelock in front of the Admiral’s sprawling bookcases over what book Campbell might have used as a cipher.

The scene Corvo walked into the morning Martin disappeared was evidently indicative of how Havelock deals with stress; he spent much of the evening shouting at servants or Pendleton, drinking, and shooting empty bottles with his pistol at a makeshift range outside. Corvo’s made it a point to warn all the servants (with the exception of Wallace since he yells at Cecelia more often than Havelock does anyway) and Piero that the Admiral is likely to be in a Mood for the foreseeable future and to avoid him if at all possible.

Pendleton has been uncharacteristically morose, drinking in his room or watching the river from the base of the ruined tower Callista sleeps in (where Emily should be sleeping now). He’s so quiet, so different from his usual entitled self, that Corvo considers telling him how he got rid of his brothers. Maybe he’d feel better if he knew they aren’t dead yet? (Although, he’s listened to a couple of Pendleton’s audiographs and Corvo has a hard time understanding why, exactly, Pendleton is so attached to his brothers. By his own admission, they’ve nearly killed him at least twice. On  _ purpose, _ mind.) But he’s certain that the twins won’t last long. He’d only be giving Pendleton false hope.

The Old Port District is smaller than some others, and its borders are even more defined now with the quarantine in place, so Corvo’s circuit through its perimeter is a quick one. Barricades wall it off from the Flooded District, keeping the worst of the plague out, but there are still Weepers (Jessamine  _ hated _ that name for them, like the plague-sick are somehow less than human) in a handful of the abandoned buildings. Corvo avoids them easily, but he doesn’t see any sign of the Knife or his Whalers.

When it’s about the time he usually comes downstairs, Corvo returns to the Hound Pits, eats with the others, and heads out again.

He returns for lunch.

Then for dinner.

Night falls.

Nothing.

A couple hours after sunset, Corvo’s lack of sleep finally catches up with him. His reactions are slowed, but he doesn’t concede to his body’s demands until he misdirects a Blink and nearly falls into a Weeper nest. Fine. He’ll sleep for a few hours and go out again. It isn’t like he’ll get much rest while he’s this wound-up anyway. Since...everything...he’s been jumpier than normal. It’s been hard enough to convince himself he’s safe at the pub on a normal day. Now, he’s imagining masked assassins around every corner.

When he lands on the fire escape outside his room, the Heart gives an unexpected beat. Frowning, he puts a hand over her, waits for her to beat again. Or speak.

Instead, something on the other side of the door gives a soundless hum that vibrates through his mark and into his bones.

Someone’s in his room.

Instinct tells him to reach for his pistol, but he grabs his crossbow instead (it’s quieter and less likely to wake the entire pub). When he uses his magic to look through the wall, he can see the glowing silhouette of  _ someone _ tucked into the shadows of the corner across from his bed. If he’d come through the main door, they would have been standing right in front of him. They’d have seen him first.

Gritting his teeth, Corvo silently opens the door and slips inside. Whoever is waiting for him is silent and unmoving. His Dark Vision shows a sword or long knife hanging from their belt, and their arms are crossed, but he doesn’t trust them to be unarmed and draws his sword for good measure. The angle they’re at will make defending awkward, but Corvo thinks (hopes?) he has the benefit of them not knowing he’s there.

He’s long memorized where the creaks are in the floor and avoids them as he stalks forward. But when he turns the corner, it’s only in time to see a flutter of ash falling to the ground. Corvo doesn’t think, just instinctively turns to block the strike he knows is coming. When it doesn’t, his momentum causes him to nearly gut a figure in red with shoulders too narrow to be Daud, but they step back just in time.

“L--”

They’re cut off abruptly when the shot from Corvo’s crossbow forces them to duck.

“Lord Attano!” they try again, hands held up to show they’re empty, but Corvo’s not about to trust anyone behind one of those masks. Dodging has shifted their center of gravity. It isn’t enough for them to lose their balance on their own, but it’s plenty to let Corvo boot them to the floor, sword pointed at the spot between the blank eyes of their vapor mask.

Neither moves for a long time.

Finally, the Whaler slowly raises their empty hands. “You asked for a meeting,” they say, voice rough but distinctly feminine.

“This how you typically show up to them?”

“Usually.”

Corvo growls and fidgets the hand clutching his crossbow. “Mask off,” he demands.

The Whaler nods and slowly reaches behind their head to loosen the straps. When it’s off, he’s face to face with a young, dark-skinned woman with short-cropped hair. She doesn’t  _ look _ dangerous but her uniform begs to differ.

“Who are you?”

“My name is Billie Lurk,” she says with forced calm, “and I’m Daud’s second in command. He sent me to make contact with you.” Lurk stares at him for a beat. “May I stand up?”

Corvo steps off her, but doesn’t sheath his sword or remove his own mask, watching as the assassin rises to her feet with deliberate slowness. The bolt in the wall behind her lines right up with her head when she straightens, hands still held where Corvo can see them. She glances around and nods her head at the lanterns on his desk. “Lights?”

The moonlight coming through the windows is hardly sufficient, so Corvo nods. When he doesn’t move, Lurk takes the hint and turns slowly towards the desk, finding the matches and lighting the largest lamp with a much steadier hand than most would have facing down Corvo’s sword. She’s got brass, he’ll give her that.

When she turns back around, Corvo pushes his mask up to see her better. “You have my attention.”

She sighs out her nose. “You want a meeting with Daud, I imagine?” When he doesn’t respond, she sighs again, shifts her weight. “Right...”

“Where is Emily?”

She tilts her head a fraction and something flickers in her face before her expression closes off. “Safe.”

“Prove it.”

“I didn’t bring anything.”

“Take me to her, then.”

“She’s at our base,” Lurk says defensively. “But she’s  _ safe. _ And you can talk to Daud about seeing her. He wanted me to set up a meeting.”

Corvo glares at her. “When?”

“When do you want it?”

“Now?”

She’s expressive, for an assassin. Maybe that’s why she was wearing her mask? “Now isn’t feasible.”

“When is ‘feasible?’”

Lurk looks off to the side, jaw working as she thinks (longer than Corvo would think necessary). “Tomorrow evening?”

“Not good enough.”

“It’s the best I can do,” she snaps.

Oh, Corvo does  _ not _ trust her. Not at all. But she’s the one Daud sent, and Daud has Emily. He needs to work with what he’s given.

“Fine.” He lowers his sword, but doesn’t sheath it. “I’m going to need proof that she’s okay.”

The assassin lowers her hands a fraction, but intelligently keeps them far away from the long knife at her belt. “What do you want?”

He thinks. “Emily likes to draw,” he says. “Ask her to draw a picture of her favorite toy from the Tower.”

“Fine.”

“Where do I need to be and when will I need to be there?”

It's Lurk's turn to think. “Five. There’s a red brick apartment building near the center of the district with a white roof covered in plague signs.”

“I know it.” It’s taller than most of the other buildings in the immediate area, Corvo’s used it as both a landmark and a vantage point.

“He’ll meet you on the top floor.”

“Fine.”

Sensing that he’s done discussing this (or perhaps just wanting to get away from him), Lurk nods brusquely and picks her mask up off the ground, still moving with deliberate slowness.

In the silence, the Heart beats in his pocket.  _ “Her first kill was to protect her friend,” _ Jess’ voice murmurs.  _ “She still wonders what might have happened, had she moved faster, but she was just a child herself.” _

The secret settles uneasily in Corvo’s chest as he watches Lurk. She shoots him a quick, dark look as if she heard what the Heart said, but she pulls her mask on and disappears out the open window.

Corvo watches until he’s certain she’s gone.

* * *

Fucking Void,  _ that _ went about as badly as Billie expected.

“That’s a stupid idea,” she’d said.

“Send someone else,” she’d said.  _ “Literally _ anyone else.”

“I have no people skills,” she’d said.

“I’m going to get  _ fucking shot,” _ she’d said.

And what happened? She almost got  _ fucking shot! _

“No one fucking listens to me,” Billie grumbles, pausing on a roof to dig through her bandolier for the pack of cigarettes she’s mostly sure is still there (she almost never uses them, they  _ should _ be there unless  _ fucking _ Tynan stole them a-fucking-gain! Outsider’s crooked cock, why can’t he ever use his own fucking shit?!).

She represses the little voice that says Daud was right, and for all her indignation, she  _ knows _ it. He was worried, he’d said, after what happened with the novices.

“You’re the only one I won’t worry about not coming home.”

No one else had been in the office when he admitted that, so quietly that it took an extra second for Billie to realize that he’d spoken at all. In that moment he looked so  _ tired _ , almost vulnerable.

She almost told him everything about Delilah. Right then and there.

By the time she finally finds her cigarettes, she’s almost worried a split into her bottom lip. What is she doing? This is wrong, she can’t… 

Daud trusts her.

Something tightens in Billie’s throat and her fingers fumble with her lighter. No matter how she tries to spin it in her mind, she’s betraying that trust, she knows it, but she’s in too deep now. She and Delilah have almost finished lining up their pieces on the board.

Tomorrow. It’ll be time to move tomorrow, while Daud is away from Rudshore and before Corvo Attano can get his hands on the princess and take her out of Billie’s reach.

Fuck, she hates this. So much.

She’s not prone to pacing, or at least she wasn’t. That’s Daud’s thing. Always has been. She’ll internalize, worry her lip, bite the inside of her cheek until it bleeds, that kind of thing. Something that doesn’t make her take up more space. That’s not enough lately. So now she paces back and forth across the roof, sucking on her cigarette like it’s a lifeline while she tries to will her worries silent.

(She just wants a break, if only for a little while.)

Billie only allows herself the time it takes the cigarette to burn down to her lips, then spits it out and grinds it under her heel as she surveys the area. She’s supposed to meet Delilah soon, to finalize the plans. Void, all Billie wants is for this to be over.

They change meeting places each time, selecting them carefully so that they’re as far as possible from one of the Whalers’ patrol routes. Today’s easier, since Daud pulled most squads back closer to Rudshore until Attano is dealt with, but Billie still keeps looking over her shoulder for someone tailing her and circles the alley a good five times before she transverses down onto street level.

Delilah’s waiting for her, reclining casually on a stack of crates like it’s a throne. Billie frowns when she sees a man she doesn’t recognize waiting by her feet.

“Ah, there she is!” Delilah hums. “You kept us waiting, dear Billie. Allow me to introduce Leonard Hume, future High Overseer.”

He isn’t dressed in the uniform of the Abbey, but his hair is cut military short and he’s studying Billie with thinly veiled contempt. So Delilah really was telling the truth when she said she had an Overseer in her pocket? Billie can’t exactly bring herself to believe that’s good news.

“Overseer,” she acknowledges tersely.

“Assassin.”

(Good to see there’s no love lost there…)

“Now, now,” Delilah chastises. “We all want the same thing. Let’s try to play together nicely, hm?” Her tone is theatrically sweet and as she rests a hand on Hume’s relaxed shoulder, he leans ever so slightly into her touch.

(Ugh, now there’s a mental image Billie wishes she could unsee.)

“Very well.” The Overseer shifts his weight, still observing Billie closely. “You can disarm the traps leading to Daud’s base?”

“I can.” She’s not going to disarm all of them, just enough to let a handful of Hume’s men make it to Rudshore. Only enough to spirit the princess away. “You’ll command your men to exercise restraint?”

“I will, but I can’t make promises if we encounter resistance.”

Then she’ll just have to make sure they don’t. “Acceptable.”

“Where will the princess be?”

“The training room.”

“I’ll mark it on your plans,” Delilah hums, wrapping her arms loosely around Hume’s neck and shoulders to hang off him. (Ughhh.) “Remember, they’ll have to get her out quickly.”

“I’ll have my best men on it, don’t worry.” Hume’s tone is almost...soft when he addresses Delilah. (They’re just not going to stop, are they? Outsider’s eyes, if they don’t quit it, Billie is going to have to bathe in rubbing alcohol or something once this meeting is over.) “I’ll escort her to you myself.”

“Wonderful.”

Hume’s expression hardens when he looks back at Billie. “And what about Daud?”

“I can’t promise he’ll be somewhere specific,” she lies. “But he’ll be in Rudshore.”

They’re just using Hume, she reminds herself. She’s going to make sure Daud’s gone by the time the Overseers attack. She just has to be convincing for right now.

She’s still loyal to Daud.

Drunk on whatever lies Delilah has been feeding him, Hume buys it. “Good.”

He’s sworn up and down not to kill any Whalers. Hume wants Daud and a bargaining chip to secure Burrows’ assistance in ousting High Overseer Martin. Delilah just wants the princess. Once Delilah has her, Billie will lead the master assassins against any Overseers that remain. By the time anyone realizes she’s missing, the girl will no longer be a threat. Billie will be able to convince Daud to leave Dunwall. Then her family will be safe.

Billie focuses on that and forces down her feelings of apprehension. Her family is almost safe.

So long as she does her job, no one will get hurt.

* * *

Daud is nearly an hour early and finds the apartment building empty. Billie had practically shoved him out the door, something about not wanting to let Attano have any kind of advantage. Even when she was a girl she was never  _ skittish, _ but lately she's been something close to it. Daud hopes coming to some kind of agreement with the Lord Protector about Emily will help. If it doesn't, hopefully she'll talk to someone instead of letting whatever it is eat her up inside like it's been. She hasn't spoken to him about anything personal since their one-sided argument.

Not that either of them is the touchy-feely sharing type, but… 

Daud sighs and adjusts the file folder in his hands so he can light a cigarette as he waits. He knows he should share some of Billie’s trepidation about this meeting. He’d even intended to come alone so that Attano wouldn’t feel like he’s walking into a trap, but the captains had insisted he at least bring someone to keep watch. Eventually, he relented. Galia, Thomas, and Rinaldo are posted outside. They’re close enough to feel like they’re doing something useful, but Daud knows that if anything were to happen, if Attano were to decide to attack him, they’re too far to make any real difference.

He’s not even sure he’d want them to step in, if it came to that.

In the dead silence of the abandoned district, Daud thinks he hears something outside. He looks up, but doesn’t see one of his Whalers; doesn’t see anyone, in fact. There’s no point in getting impatient, so he just casually flicks a bit of ash off the end of his cigarette and settles back where he was leaning against the wall. A moment later, he looks outside in time to catch a brief flash of Void-blue light. He checks his watch, slips it back into his pocket, and straightens. The cigarette is spent, so Daud jams it against the ruined wallpaper to put it out before putting it in a pocket.

When someone in a long navy coat appears in another flash of Void-blue, it’s on a roof directly across from the window Daud’s looking out of. He doesn’t move, just watches Attano watch him for an extended moment before they disappear again. There’s the edge of another flash where he must transverse to the lamppost on the side of the building (do his transversals have a shorter range?) before he finally appears at the apartment window and drops inside.

Whoever says the Whaler masks are unnerving has clearly never seen the metal monstrosity the Lord Protector is wearing because there is absolutely no comparison. The facsimile of a skeletal smile is somehow worse with the dark glass obscuring his eyes. Thankfully, Daud doesn’t have to stare at it for long. It feels like forever, but after only about thirty seconds, Attano reaches up to pull the mask and hood off.

The last time he saw Corvo Attano, he was being dragged away from the Empress’ body. There’s only marginally more light behind his eyes now, either from rage or hate, and the gauntness of his face suggests that most (if not all) of his apparent bulk is from wearing clothes that are just slightly too big for him, but have been strategically tacked up to fit. Even so, Daud has to bite back a sigh of relief because he doesn’t  _ look _ ill. Perhaps these Loyalists are actually making an effort to care for him.

If he makes it back to Rudshore, he’ll at least be able to tell Emily her father is looking well.

“Lord Attano.” Daud doesn’t try to close any of the distance between them, but he does shift the folder in his hand to make sure the papers inside are still straight, and the other man’s eyes follow his movements sharply. The way he tenses and clenches his gloved hands (thank the Outsider he’s not just running around without anything to cover his mark) suggests to Daud that he hasn’t ruled out the possibility of trying to rip Daud’s throat out. Which is fair.

When Attano doesn’t respond, just keeps watching him like a wolfhound, some of Daud’s resolve falters and he almost looks down. Instead, he shuts his eyes, takes a breath, and opens his mouth to speak when,

“What have you done with Emily?”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GUYS :DDD  
> It only took 64,353 words to get them in a room together, but !!!!!! :DDD
> 
> (i'm so, so sorry)


	14. In which an unstoppable force meets an immovable object

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternative chapter title: "In which Corvo is an obstinate idiot who makes me rewrite sections multiple times because he's being Difficult."
> 
> Stillllll technically not done with my thesis yet, whoops. I thank you all for your patience and your readership. Y'all're awesome :3

Whatever Corvo had been expecting the Knife of Dunwall to be, it wasn’t this. Yes, Daud has the scar, the long knife, the red coat, all the trappings one would expect of the infamous assassin, but there’s something...off. His shoulders are down, he won’t look Corvo in the eye for longer than a second, and he has the kind of shadows under his eyes a person only gets from chronically too little sleep (Corvo’s seen the look on his own face enough times to recognize it).

To be quite frank, he looks like shit.

The Heart agitates in his pocket almost instantly, twitching like there’s a rune or bonecharm nearby. _“Paid assassin. Daud,”_ she says tersely, then quivers again. _“Am I meant to forgive this man for what he did?”_

Corvo almost regrets removing his mask. He sets his jaw, clenches his fists, and stares Daud down. What he wants is to kill him, that much is a given. The three Whalers he spied on his approach are far away; if he moves quickly, he could have Daud dead and be gone himself before they’re even aware something’s happened.

The thought is certainly tempting, but Daud also has Emily.

Corvo’s sudden question looks like it actually startles him, and Daud looks up. “Nothing,” he rumbles quietly, then repeats Lurk’s assertion that, “She… She’s safe.” He opens the file folder in his hands and produces a sealed envelope. Corvo can see his own name written large in what’s undeniably Emily’s handwriting, a swirled mix of print and cursive she picked up from Jess. The assassin hesitates and half steps forward to hand it over, but changes his mind when Corvo tenses. Instead, he turns and puts it on a table in roughly the middle of the room.

“She sent me with that,” Daud nods towards the envelope.

“What is it?”

“I assume the picture you asked for, and probably a letter.”

Corvo works his jaw, looking between Daud and the envelope. Daud doesn’t move after he steps back to his original spot, just watches him with an unsteady gaze, like he’d prefer to look anywhere else besides at Corvo, but is forcing himself to do it anyway.

That doesn’t make sense.

Daud doesn’t rush him, just waits for Corvo to eventually step forward and take Emily’s envelope, which he does. It’s still sealed by a bit of wax that looks like someone tipped a normal candle along the seam. Inside is a folded drawing that is irrefutably of Emily’s doll, Mrs. Pilsen, with her shoulder-length brown hair and white-collared purple dress. Behind that, like Daud said, is a letter, folded neatly and written on both sides of the paper in more of Emily’s scrawl. Corvo gives Daud a sharp look as he unfolds it, but the assassin barely reacts. He’s watching the floor, waiting for Corvo.

_Dear Corvo,_

_I have so much I want to say, I don’t even know where to start. I’ve been so worried about you, but Quinn and Billie have both seen you now and they said you looked okay._

(Quinn? Who is that and when did they see Corvo?)

_To begin, I’m all right. I know you won’t really believe it until you see me, but I am, I promise. Daud and the Whalers have all been really nice to me. I know you won’t believe that, either. We’ll have to talk about it. I know it’s weird, but they’ve been protecting me._

_It was Burrows who killed Mother. He did hire Daud, but Daud didn’t have a choice. Burrows was threatening the Whalers. They’re like a family, and there are so many kids here that could have gotten hurt if the City Watch and Overseers came. He had to do what Burrows wanted. But now he regrets it. I don’t know if he’d ever say it out loud, but he does. He’s trying to help me and to change, I think. When Burrows said he wanted to kill me, Daud refused and offered to protect me instead. He planned to rescue you from Coldridge, too, because I asked. The other people just got you out first._

_You don’t know Daud_ ~~_past what he_ ~~ _and I know_ ~~_you’re_ ~~ _you probably don’t want to trust him. I didn’t and I was scared of him for a long time, but he’s trying. He’s brought me books and is letting Galia teach me how to protect myself (I know you said you’d be the one to teach me someday, I’m sorry). I’ve been having lessons with their doctor, Fisher, sometimes, too. I’m staying with Galia and Quinn in their apartment, and Quinn lets me climb in bed with her when I have a nightmare. Everyone has been trying so hard to be nice and to help me. I’ve been trying to_ ~~_for_ ~~ _get past things, too._ ~~_I think Mother would want_ ~~

_All of this is Burrow’s fault, not Daud’s. He and everyone else have all been trying to do what they can to fix things. It_ ~~_won’t bring Mother back, and it_ ~~ _won’t undo anything that’s happened, I know. I miss the both of you so much, but I know I’ll see you again soon._

 ~~ _Don’t_~~ ~~_Please_~~ ~~_Try_~~ _Just talk to Daud. Please? I know you probably hate him for everything, but he is trying. He promised he’d make sure we see each other again, and I know he’s telling the truth._

_I love you._

_\--Emily_

_P.S.: Quinn is getting me some wax to try to seal this, and I’m not showing it to anyone else. This is just for you. Daud won’t know what I’ve written and nobody made me write this. I promise I’m safe._

Corvo reads the letter twice, but its contents don’t change. It _sounds_ like Emily, the handwriting is the same, maybe a little hesitant at the end with how much is scratched out, but it’s definitely her. It's the message that doesn’t make sense. Daud has been _helping_ her? And what in the Void is that supposed to mean, he’s “trying?!”

Corvo sighs and rubs his temples with his thumb and middle finger. This is completely insane.

At his movement, Daud looks up a little, only enough to show he’s paying attention if Corvo speaks. (Fuck, he’s not going to be able to get away with just staying quiet, is he?) And there's so much he _could_ say, but Corvo's never been one for talking, he'd always rather listen. You learn so much more from listening. Unfortunately, Daud seems content to let Corvo direct the meeting, and staring him down like he's imagining how the assassin would look with a sword running him through isn't getting them anywhere.

Corvo gestures broadly with Emily's letter. “Why?” Why keep her? Why kill the Empress and save her daughter? (As much as he hates to admit it, Daud did save her from some horrible death at the hands of the Pendletons, or from something hopefully less horrific but still awful at the hands of him and his Whalers.

Nothing is making sense anymore.)

Daud doesn't respond immediately. He folds his hands behind his back and watches the floor while he takes a moment to think. “When I murdered your Empress and took her daughter,” he begins slowly, carefully, and looking vaguely discomfited by the admission, “something inside me broke. I finally felt the weight of everything I’ve done, all the blood, all the killing, and I just couldn’t do it anymore. Even if I hadn’t…” Daud pauses like he’s searching for the right word, only to give up and continue with a sigh. “We don’t accept contracts that target children.”

Corvo grits his teeth. “Then why did you kidnap Emily in the first place?” Why not just leave her?

“Because my hands were tied,” he answers automatically. “Burrows knows where to find us, and I wasn’t prepared to risk him sending Overseers to hunt us down.”

“What changed?”

“Some of my captains decided they were willing to risk it. We’ve spent the past months fortifying our position after it became clear we wouldn’t be able to readily find somewhere else. Between the traps, barricades, and sentries, we’ll have more than enough warning to evacuate the non-combatants and come up with an offensive.”

By “non-combatants,” Corvo wonders if Daud is referring to the children Emily mentioned. “And your men were all suddenly okay with this?”

“No. A handful have left, I wasn’t going to force them to stay.” Daud’s responses are too prompt to be off-the-cuff lies, but he could have rehearsed them. It would be easy to guess this line of questioning.

Either hearing or sensing Corvo’s doubts, the Heart gives a single beat. _“He speaks truly,”_ she murmurs, then beats again. _“His hands have done violence, but there is a different dream in his heart.”_

That isn’t what he wanted to hear.

“So what was the plan?” There had to be a plan. Or an ulterior motive. “Hold onto her until the city died?”

“No.” Daud opens the file folder in his hands and thumbs through a few pages before pulling one out that he slides towards Corvo across the table he’d set Emily’s letter on. It’s a floorplan of Coldridge, with annotations. “We planned to turn her over to someone who would keep her safe. She requested it be you.”

Corvo turns wary eyes to the map. What he can make out of the scrawled annotations describe a small team slipping in and out of the prison, entirely unnoticed but for the empty cell they'd leave behind. As proof goes, it could be staged, but Emily's letter suggests otherwise.

“You were planning to break into Coldridge?”

“To get you out, yes. We were preparing to leave when one of my men came back and said you'd already been helped.” Daud's expression becomes mildly irritated, but he schools it quickly.

How's that for a coincidence? “Then what?”

“...That would have been up to you.” Daud straightens a fraction, finally looking Corvo in the eye. “What I've done, to you, to the Empress, to Emily,” Corvo all but bristles at the casual use of her name, “is unforgivable. I have no right to expect anything, and nothing I can do will make things right. If you want to kill me, I have no arguments. My men care enough for her that they'll see Emily is returned to you whether I'm here or not.”

“You _want_ me to kill you?” Corvo would be all too happy to oblige.

Daud actually has to consider his question before answering. “No. But you have every right to. I only ask you leave my men out of it.”

 _“He has brought them up from orphans, refugees, and mercenaries,”_ the Heart says. _“He shares his power and feels their lives within his own. He… He cares for them, and he worries that they will be punished for his sins.”_

An assassin who cares. There's irony there that Corvo doesn't have the energy to delve into right now.

“What do you want, then?”

“To do what I can to help her.” Daud shifts and meets Corvo’s eye again. “...I have a proposal, if you would hear it out?”

Corvo crosses his arms and tries to adjust his expression to something slightly less like a glare to show he’s listening. (He’s not sure how well he succeeds, but Daud continues anyway.)

“As I said, our base is fortified. Your ‘Loyalists,’” he makes a bit of a face at the word, “are relying on the incompetence of the Watch and fear of the quarantine to keep them safe. Those won’t hold out forever. Burrows’ paranoia will only grow as you move closer to him; he’ll think to search quarantined districts soon enough.”

“You don’t think our position is tenable?”

“I know it’s not. Allying with the new High Overseer will buy time, but unless Martin finds a way to use the Abbey to run patrols without them knowing what they’re guarding, his influence won’t go far enough. None of theirs will.”

It shouldn’t be surprising that Daud has done research on Corvo’s allies, but that doesn’t mean he likes the idea of being spied on.

The assassin fidgets with the folder in his hands. He knows Corvo won’t like whatever he’s about to say. “The pub isn’t a safe place to take the princess.”

Corvo clenches his jaw again. “And what, do you suggest, is the alternative?”

“She’s safe where she is now.”

“No.”

“I’ll still bring you to see her--”

 _“No,”_ Corvo hisses. “Absolutely not.” Not with assassins. Not with the man who killed her mother _right in front of her._

Daud dips his head in acknowledgement of Corvo’s apprehension. “I know it isn’t the most respectable scenario, but--”

“Didn’t you say Burrows knows where you are?” Corvo interjects. “What’s to stop him from sending the Watch? He’s already tried to kill her once.” If he gets his hands on Emily again, there’s nothing Corvo will be able to do. Outsider knows he’ll still try, but his chances would be slim at best. Worse, even, if it takes time for him to hear Daud’s base has been attacked.

“Our position is fortified,” Daud repeats calmly. He meets Corvo’s eye and adds, “I wouldn’t suggest it if I wasn’t sure. She’s safer with us than with your Loyalists.” Daud holds his folder out towards him and Corvo is too irritated to catch himself before he's stepped forward to snatch it out of his grasp. (Fuck, was that on purpose? Bastard…)

Corvo takes a step back, not turning his back on the assassin for a second, but Daud doesn't move, just folds his hands behind his back once he's no longer holding the folder. When Corvo thumbs through it, there are nine separately pinned stacks of notes and sketches.

“What is all this?”

“Everything we have or could find on your allies,” Daud says. By the Void, these are all _dossiers._ “Not all of it is damning, the servants don't have much beyond employment history and a handful of questionable relationships, but the ringleaders are a different story. Starting with the least worrisome, Pendleton--”

“Is a spineless drunk and only there to bankroll everything.” He sincerely hopes that Daud isn’t just going to tell him things he’s already figured out.

“...Yes.” If Daud is at all put off by Corvo’s interruption, he doesn’t show it. “But he’s also hired me in the past, separately from his brothers.” That gets Corvo to look up. “He’s no less ambitious or greedy than any other noble; he just knows how to hide it behind apparent frailty. He has a tendency to talk himself into problems, and when his health isn’t enough to help him weasel out of consequences, he throws money at them until they go away. Recently, however, his family’s mines have been under-producing. There’s been talk of bankruptcy.”

Corvo frowns. “Getting in the new Empress’ good graces might seem like a good way to end that.”

“Exactly.”

Well, money problems do make Pendleton a potential liability, but if he’s looking to fix it by proving his loyalty to Emily, that might not be so much of a problem as it is insurance. Corvo skims over Pendleton’s dossier, well aware of Daud’s eyes on him.

“Then there’s the Overseer,” the assassin continues. “My concern is the lack of information on him.”

“Isn’t that a good thing?”

“Not when that includes basic records. We’ve had half an eye on him for a while, he has a reputation for having friends everywhere and a talent for sussing out secrets.” Something in Daud’s tone sounds like he’s reluctantly impressed. “In other circumstances, I might have approached him for employment.”

“If he weren’t an Overseer, you mean,” Corvo says, disinterested.

“Actually, we’re not entirely convinced he is. There are too few records about him before he came to Dunwall.”

What the Heart said about Martin being a highwayman and a soldier before he was an Overseer make more sense in light of that. The Abbey trains Overseers and Oracles from childhood; Martin shouldn’t have had time to be anything else. To keep up appearances, Corvo asks Daud, “What do you think he is, then?”

Daud shrugs. “Potentially? A conman who’s played the role of an Overseer convincingly enough to get access to the secrets he needed to keep up the ruse long-term,” he says. “Other people suspect him, too, but they don’t have evidence or are afraid to say anything. Worse now that he’s managed to get out from under the accusations of helping you and become High Overseer. I wouldn’t trust a thing he says, especially now that he’s gotten what he wanted out of the Loyalists.”

“Havelock said he was their strategist.”

“Doesn’t surprise me. Speaking of which,” Daud nods at the final dossier in the stack, “how much do you know about how the former Admiral lost his rank?”

“Only that he either resigned or was forced out after refusing to follow Burrows.” But that’s what Havelock himself told Corvo.

Daud’s frown tells him that those suspicions are not entirely misplaced. “He tried to use his command of the Navy to stage a military coup.”

_“What?!”_

“It happened shortly after Burrows was made Lord Regent and wasn’t widely publicized because it didn’t get far. A handful of officers evidently tipped Burrows off, who then had the Admiral dragged before Parliament and stripped of his command and rank.”

“Why wasn’t he arrested?”

“Enough of the Navy is still loyal to him, and he’s held in good esteem amongst the Watch and the Army. I suspect Burrows was trying to defang him without causing too much uproar. He’s already funding the Watch almost entirely out of pocket since he can’t access the reserves and lacks the authority to levy new taxes without consent from Parliament. Elixir rations are the only thing keeping most of the military serving him.”

Corvo holds his head again, closing his eyes. “Havelock’s plan fell apart, so he found Martin,” he summarizes. A clearer picture of this conspiracy is starting to come to light. “And then they tapped Pendleton to fund their schemes.”

“They probably saw him as someone they could easily control.” Great, Daud’s come to a similar conclusion.

So Havelock is looking for power and to regain his standing, Pendleton is hoping for the Crown to put an end to his financial troubles, and Martin has already gotten what he wants, unless there’s something else. Not exactly the most trustworthy of cabals, but if Corvo’s only other choice is to leave Emily with Daud…

No. He’d still rather her be at the Hound Pits than with the people who killed Jessamine. He’s familiar with the Loyalists and has found that he can at least influence Havelock and Pendleton. Besides, their plans fall apart entirely if anything happens to Emily.

“I’m still taking Emily back,” Corvo says flatly.

Daud sighs out his nose, disappointed but not at all surprised. “Fine, we--” He stops abruptly and looks out one of the windows. Corvo follows his gaze to see a masked Whaler appear on a distant rooftop, then disappear again. It looks like nothing, but Daud’s expression closes off from whatever it was before.

“What is it?”

“I’ll have to send someone to you to arrange--”

“No. No more _waiting,”_ Corvo hisses, a hand straying in the vague direction of the weapons at his belt. _Enough_ of this sneaking around and passing messages through intermediaries! He can’t… He can’t keep this pace up. He needs her back.

If it were someone else, Corvo might call Daud’s composure admirable. He doesn’t flinch or look surprised, just says, calmly and far too reasonably, “Are you planning to carry her across the city’s rooftops on your back?” When Corvo doesn’t have a response, Daud continues, “You have a boat. That would be more comfortable and safer for you both. I’ll send someone tomorrow to give you details on where to go.”

“Can’t you give them to me now?” Corvo presses. This being kept in the dark thing is getting incredibly old.

“I haven't decided on a location, otherwise I would.” (Figures he doesn’t trust Corvo to know where his base is.) “If you could not attack the messenger--”

“I make no promises.” Especially not if they wait to surprise him in his room again.

Daud sighs, briefly looking even more tired than before, but it’s gone in a moment as movement starts at a window across the room. A Whaler in a blue coat and mask has appeared and Corvo narrows his eyes at the black band on their left arm.

“Daud,” they (she? it’s hard to tell with that mask) say. He can’t see their eyes behind the mask, but Corvo swears he feels them watching him for something. An attack, maybe.

“Coming.” Daud turns to the window with a brief final glance at Corvo to check that he isn’t trying to attack while his back is turned before disappearing in a rush of Void and ash. The Whaler watches Corvo for a second longer before following their leader.

Corvo doesn’t leave immediately. Instead, he steps forward to look out the window Daud has left from. A few rooftops away, he can see a red-clad figure appearing out of nowhere joined by four others in dark blue. Waiting.

He snorts derisively, putting on his mask. They would want him to leave first. Fine. He’ll play along for a while longer.

* * *

As soon as Daud is out of sight, Billie moves. First, she sends the sentries away, one by one. She’s managed to arrange for fewer to be on base detail today and increased city-wide patrols in an effort to get as many people as she can as far away as possible. Once they’re gone, Billie disarms most of the traps the Whalers have set, strategically leaving a handful primed. They’re big enough to take out a good chunk of less cautious Overseers, but few enough in number to where she hopes Hume won’t be too suspicious. Galia being gone means most of the younger kids aren’t training, and Billie’s managed to distract Rulfio by suggesting he take his class of older novices to the other side of the quarantine. The rest are easy to send away or move somewhere safe.

She’s running through her list of preparations, almost beyond caring whether or not she’s being obvious. Void, she wasn’t even this antsy before they broke into the Tower, fuck… Billie snatches a cigarette out of the new pack in her pockets.

All that’s left is the princess.

It’s a blessing that she isn’t in a lesson with Fisher (he’d see through Billie in a second, she just knows it), but she still isn’t alone. Billie follows the sound of voices through the nearly deserted Chamber of Commerce to find Quinn and Emily, curled up in the bests chair (comparatively speaking) and reading aloud from a book. It's about pirates, it sounds like, and Quinn's rendition features sweeping hand motions alongside dramatic narration.

Something in Billie's gut twists at the quiet domesticity, but she presses it down. She has a job to do.

“Quinn.”

She stops mid-gesture and clutches the book to her chest with both hands like she’s embarrassed. “Billie! Hi! Did you need something?”

“Yeah. Go check up on Dodge at her surveillance post. I have her sitting on the Boyles.”

“Oh.” Quinn glances over at Emily. “We were hoping to wait for Daud to come back…”

“You're the only one free besides Pavel,” Billie lies, “and he'll just pester her. Nothing will get done.”

Quinn rolls her eyes as Emily giggles, but she still seems reluctant to leave. “Okay. Should I take Emily to Fisher's?”

That's right, the girl's never really left alone, is she? Damn… “Don't worry about it, I'll take her.”

“Are you sure?” Billie hasn't exactly been avoiding the princess, but she hasn't been making any effort at all to interact with her.

“Yeah. I need to stop by there anyway. Drop her off in the training room and I'll swing by and pick her up on my way. Should only be a couple minutes.” It’s hard not to hold her breath while she waits for Quinn’s response.

“All right,” she says easily. “Can we finish this bit first, though? I’m on the last paragraph of the chapter.”

“Go ahead,” Billie tries her best to sound dismissive. “Just get going sooner rather than later, all right?”

“Yes, ma’am!”

Even the girl gives her a small wave when Billie turns to leave. Fucking Void, she’s going to need a drink after this...


	15. In which no one was supposed to get hurt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. The goal was to post this on the Ides of March because of an extended joke that English-nerd me thinks is absolutely hilarious. Didn't quite get it, but I tried. Bonus points to whoever catches it :P
> 
> This chapter got horrendously long, but like, at least the Surge is over in one fell swoop right??? :D  
> (i'm sorry)

Rudshore is oddly quiet. Emily’s become so used to a certain level of background hum and noise that its absence feels deafening. She tries to ignore it, focusing instead on her form as she practices with her knife against the Overseer Lucky practice dummy.

“Loosen-up your shoulders a little,” Quinn advises from her perch atop one of the bookcases. “You’re too little to rely on brute force, go for speed.”

Emily nods, rolls her shoulders, and tries to relax. “I’m okay if you leave, you know,” she says. “Billie’ll be here soon.”

“It’s okay,” says Quinn, waving her off. “Dodge can take care of herself.”

“Won’t you get in trouble?”

“Not if she doesn’t catch me, I won’t.”

It’s hard not to smile at that and Emily returns her attention to the dummy and her knife.

Then there’s an explosion.

It sounds like someone’s throwing grenades at the river krusts again, only there aren’t any so close to the Chamber, and the second explosion is even closer. Emily swears she feels the floorboards vibrate under her feet. When she looks up to say something, Quinn is no longer smiling or relaxed. She’s tensed with her arms braced on the bookcase like she’s about to spring off.

“Quinn? What’s--”

“Stay here,” she commands, sounding far too much like Galia or Daud, before disappearing in a transversal. Emily waits for her to come back, fingers wrapped tight around her knife as she begins to hear indistinct shouting from outside. There’s another explosion that  _ definitely _ rattles the walls and Quinn reappears, half-running, half-transversing down the hallway.

“What’s happening?!” Emily calls and she hates that she can’t keep the note of fear out of her voice, that her mind immediately jumps back six months to the Tower, to blank, faceless masks, and her mother--

“You need to hide!” Quinn’s tone is urgent and she reaches for Emily’s shoulders like she’s trying to keep her from disappearing.

“Quinn--”

“Not now,” she says, looking around frantically for somewhere,  _ anywhere _ Emily can hide. “There isn’t time… Here!” She pulls Emily towards a tall bookshelf on the other side of the room with a cabinet settled precariously on top of it. The way the spotlights are arranged cast it in solid enough shadow that Emily hadn’t even seen it before Quinn pointed it out.

Quinn hoists her up to reach the cabinet and practically shoves her inside, saying, “Stay here! No matter what happens, no matter what you see or hear, you  _ stay in here, _ understand?” All Emily can do is nod dumbly as the tight space forces her to hug her knees to her chest, but at least that gets Quinn to relax a little.

“Okay. Do you have your knife? Good.” She hesitates a second, looking down the hallway over her shoulder before she digs through her bandolier of pockets. “I want… Hold onto this, okay? I don’t know if it’ll work with the music, but if it does, it’ll keep you hidden as long as you stay still, all right?” She climbs up a couple shelves and presses a three-tined bonecharm made of blackened bone into Emily’s hands. “Just stay as still as you can and don’t come out until it’s safe.”

The charm buzzes like something angry when Emily clutches it, and it’s enough of a jolt to get her to find her voice. “What about you?”

Something clatters loudly in the hall, making both her and Quinn jump. When Emily looks back at Quinn, she’s managed to pull together a disingenuine smile. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine. Remember, stay in here and stay as still as possible.”

Before Emily can respond, Quinn shuts the cabinet and transverses to the other side of the room. Peeking through a crack in the door, Emily watches Quinn pull on her mask and take up a position on top of one of the other bookcases with her wristbow loaded and pointed at the doorway.

A discordant sound reaches Emily’s ears and Quinn nearly flinches off her perch. Emily holds her breath when Quinn steadies her wristbow and fires as three Overseers stride into the room, spotlights glinting harshly off their golden masks. The shot goes wide. It sails above the shoulder of one turning the crank on some kind of contraption that looks like a music box, but Emily’s never heard one that sounded so awful.

As if they’re multiple heads on one horrible creature, the Overseers all turn towards Quinn in perfect unison. She reaches for her sword and tries to scramble away, but her movements are uncoordinated. One’s able to grab her by the ankle and yanks her down. The other Overseer manages to grab the respirator on her vapor mask and Emily clamps a hand over her mouth to keep from screaming when he uses his grip to smash the back of Quinn’s head into the hard wood of the bookcase. It shocks her limp and her sword clatters to the ground. The Overseers manipulate her into a kneeling position, tug off her gloves, and bind her hands behind her back while their third stands there watching and turning the crank on the music box. One pulls off her mask and despite looking like she’s about to be sick, Quinn still has enough wherewithal to snarl and bare her teeth like a cornered wolfhound.

“A child?”

“Where’s the princess?”

“She was supposed to be unguarded.”

“No matter.” One bends and grips Quinn’s chin. “Tell us where the princess is.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Quinn hisses stubbornly.

“You would do well not to lie to me, girl,” the Overseer chastises.

Quinn snarls and jerks out of his grip. “Fuck off.”

“Hm.” Without warning, the Overseer catches her in a backhand. Quinn doesn’t cry out, but does nearly tip off balance. If the Overseer hadn’t grabbed a fistful of her coat to pull her back, she might have fallen. “Unfortunately for you, I am not feeling very patient. Tell us where the princess is.”

“I told you, I don’t know.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Not my problem.”

“It will be if you don’t tell us where you’ve hidden her.”

“Don’t your Strictures advise against lying?” she sneers. “I can't tell you something I don't know or didn't do.”

From his tone, Emily just knows the Overseer is smirking behind that horrible mask as he straightens up. “Clever. But I know a Lying Tongue when I see one. Search the room.”

The second Overseer, the one not carrying the box, nods and turns on his heel to pace around. When he nears Emily's hiding spot, she holds her breath and bites her tongue to keep from making any noise. Her mind is racing. Isn't Campbell gone? Why are they looking for her? Does Burrows still have allies in the Abbey? Where is Billie?

What are they going to do to Quinn?

Either by some miracle or by Quinn's bonecharm, the Overseer doesn't find her. When he circles around back to Quinn, his hand is resting menacingly on his saber. “She can't have gone far. Where is she?”

“Get an audiograph and hit record because I'm not--”

He  _ kicks _ Quinn, hard in the stomach, and she doubles over, retching and gasping for air. While she's off balance, the Overseer nudges her with the toe of his boot to knock her over and catches her knee under his foot. “The more you lie, the harder this will become for you,” he sighs. When it looks like Quinn's started catching her breath, he  _ ever so slightly _ puts some of his weight down on her knee to make it rush away from her again. “What will it be?”

* * *

Misha looks about ready to vibrate out of his skin, but he still listens when Daud tells him to wait. The five of them watch until Attano transverses away, and only then does Daud tell Misha to go ahead.

“You've got to come home, we've been attacked,” he says in a rush. “It's Overseers, they've brought music boxes.”

Everyone tenses and turns to look at Daud, anticipating his command to go, but he can't just swoop in blindly. Even though the news chills him to his bones, he needs to approach this calmly. “How many?”

“Overseers? Not many, maybe two dozen, but we're scattered. I don't know how many we have, and if we just call the patrols home…”

“They'll run right into a trap,” Rinaldo finishes and Misha nods.

“What about the sentries?” They should have been able to give everyone else enough warning to evacuate, why didn’t they?

“Gone.” Misha fidgets with his wristbow. “I don't know where they went, but they're gone. We didn't know anything until the bastards were right on us.”

Cautiously, Daud runs down the line of Arcane Bonds, giving each a small tug just to make sure the connections are still good. A few tug back, unconcerned where they must be outside Rudshore, but he senses anxiety and alarm from most. A handful of Bonds feel like they're anchored to the Void with no one at the other end, confirming what he'd sensed while speaking with the Lord Protector. They're not broken, but the Whalers they're connected to are somewhere his magic can’t reach them.

“We'll head back,” he says, “take stock of the situation, and come up with a plan.” The assembled Whalers nod. “Misha, where are most of our men?”

“There's a bunch holed-up with Fisher, but the Overseers might have seen me leave, I didn't want to wait to check.”

The first part bodes well for the contingency plans, at least. They'll figure out what went wrong later. For now, Daud needs to make sure everyone's safe.

“The sewers will be fastest,” Thomas says, but Misha shakes his head.

“Bad idea. They’re all through the Chamber. I had to come by the overland route.”

That will cost them precious time, but they can’t risk the sewers putting them straight in the middle of a trap. “The long way it is,” Daud says before transversing off. He doesn’t have to wait to know that the others are right behind him.

There’s only one ground-level route in or out of Rudshore, and they follow right alongside it. Daud can see groups of dead Overseers where they triggered the Whalers’ traps, left where they fell until their “brothers” could return for them. It looks like only a handful of traps worked, what happened to the rest? How in the Void did these bastards get past their defenses? Daud’s going to have some questions for their leader when he gets his hands on him.

As they approach, Daud can hear the discordant sound of music boxes. Fortunately, they're too far away to have much of an effect, but he still winces slightly at the noise scraping excruciatingly at the inside of his skull. The Whalers always feel it worse than him, though whether it’s because they have less experience or just some strange effect of their powers being borrowed is up for debate, and they tense and twitch even as they fall in line behind him when he crouches down to avoid being seen.

Fisher’s infirmary is high enough that Daud doubts the Overseers will have gotten inside, not with the two floors immediately below it completely blocked off. They find it with the big bay doors shut and the chain leading up coiled on the catwalk. There are Overseers directly below, pacing like they don't know what's above them. Good. Daud goes alone at first and raps a patterned knock against the metal. A few seconds later, there's the sound of scraping as the bar blocking it is removed and the massive metal door slides open a hair's breadth before it's dragged open fully.

“Master Daud!” Connor looks immeasurably relieved to see him and moves out of the way to let everyone inside. Before shutting the door back, he glances around to look for stragglers. “Misha found you, good, did you find--”

“Connor Eugene Devereaux, get the bloody Void away from that door or so help me--” Fisher ignores Connor’s indignant shout of, “Mom!” at the use of his middle name, focusing entirely on whatever is happening with the aforementioned door. When he catches sight of Daud, his expression of frustrated worry relaxes ever so slightly. “Oh thank the stars, it’s you.”

“What's happening?”

Fisher gestures broadly at the door. “Fu--damned Overseers marched in with music boxes,” he begins. “Rulfio brought his novices back from training, ran right into a pack of them, and barely got away with everyone. We think some patrols are hiding out nearby, but we can't risk sending anyone to look with those contraptions locking down everything within four storeys to ground level, at least. There are at least two other big groups of us tucked away in safe houses, but no one's seen a good two thirds of the sentries who were supposed to be on duty. I've got eight novices with miscellaneous superficial injuries, three masters with the same, and I don't know how many others who can't make it here scattered throughout the base.” He drops his hand with a final huff. “It… It’s a mess.”

“I know.” Daud puts a hand on the physician’s shoulder. “We’ll take care of it, don’t worry. Who’s here?”

Fisher sighs, and beckons for him to follow. The infirmary proper is full of Whalers; no young kids, but plenty of older novices and only a handful of masters, even fewer of which appear completely uninjured. Rinaldo breaks away from the group to check on Rulfio and the bandage on his forehead. The older Escobar insists that he “just got nicked by some shrapnel,” that he’ll be fine, but Rinaldo doesn’t look convinced. At the sight of the brothers, Galia rushes off to ask after Quinn and Emily. Fisher has evidently deputized a few uninjured novices to help out with treating minor cuts and scrapes, but there are still a few people waiting for Fisher to see to them. As Daud surveys the room, the physician returns to a stool and resumes treating a half-bandaged burn on Akila’s lower leg as her brother hugs her tight to his chest. Daud thinks he’s comforting her until he gets close enough to hear what they’re saying:

“Ki, stop fighting me and let Fisher wrap it!”

“Let me  _ fucking _ go!”

“You are  _ not _ going back out there!”

“Like Void I’m not!”

Pavel gestures as much as he can at Akila’s injured leg without loosening his grip. “Look at your leg!”

“You’re not going anywhere, Akila,” Fisher says sternly. At least she knows better than to try kicking at him.

“I’m--!” She catches sight of Daud and stops struggling. “Master Daud! You have to help Tynan!”

“What’s wrong with Tynan?”

Akila starts to speak, but Pavel’s there first. “We got caught by some Overseers. They had a box,” he says, avoiding eye contact. “But then Tynan got the one with it in the head and told us to run. So I grabbed Ki and by the time we realized he wasn’t behind us, another one had gotten the box started back up.”

“He just  _ left him!” _ Akila snarls.

“He ordered us to run and you were hurt! What was I supposed to to?!” Pavel snaps back.

“Not fucking that!”

Daud’s gut twists. Shit, some of their people have actually been captured. He’d been hoping the ones near music boxes were just hidden nearby, but safe… 

“I’ll get him,” he says, and Akila finally relaxes.

“Thank you, sir.”

He nods and turns his attention to the dull roar in the rest of the room. When he looks, Misha is the only Whaler he came in with that’s still beside him, so he leans over a bit and says, “Could you get everyone’s attention?”

“Of course.” Misha takes a deep breath and exhales in a sharp, shrill whistle like the start of a boatswain’s call. Everyone immediately hushes and turns to look at him. “Boss’s on deck!” he barks.

“Thank you,” Daud murmurs. To the room at large, he says, “Show of hands, how many masters are uninjured?” About ten hands go up in the air, at least half of which are definitely lying because one of them is Rulfio, but ten is a number he can work with. “All right. Stay here and wait for my signal. I’m going to take care of the music boxes.”

“Alone?!” Fisher snaps.

“It’ll be easier; I can withstand them better than the rest of you can.”

“Sir, what if you get caught?” asks Thomas.

“I’ll be fine.”

“Wait!” Galia shouts from the other side of the room as she begins to elbow her way over. “Wait, Daud!” She sounds panicked.

“What is it?”

“No one’s seen Quinn or Emily.”  She makes it over to him, fidgety and anxious the way she only ever is when Quinn’s well-being is involved. “I need to look for them, they could be hurt--”

“Absolutely not,” Daud says firmly. The last thing he needs is someone running around in a panic, not that he begrudges her for it. Every one of his men is the parent, sibling, or child of at least one other, be it by blood or by bond. They’re all worried sick, himself included, but they have to keep their heads on straight or else risk losing somebody.

“But, sir--!”

“Stay here, and that’s an order. Thomas,” they’re close, he’s the only one besides Daud she might actually listen to, “keep her here. I’ll find them.”

The look Galia gives both him and Thomas is somewhere between hurt and supremely betrayed, but Daud ignores it for now. She’d agree with him if it were anyone else but Quinn.

* * *

The only things the Overseers had in their favor were the element of surprise and those music boxes. With the initial surprise over and (Daud hopes) survived, all they have left are the boxes. They certainly don’t have  _ numbers,  _ Misha’s assessment looks to have been correct; the Whalers can meet them almost two-to-one, even with their injured and youngest discounted. What intelligence did they have that made their leader think so small a force would be a good idea? He’s either an idiot or far too confident in the protection of the music boxes. Or both. Knowing the Abbey, it can always be both.

Either way, Daud will end him as soon as he gets his answers and his Whalers are safe.

As awful as it is, Daud’s thankful for the amount of noise the music boxes make; it’s all the easier to track them that way, especially when the Overseers carrying them can’t keep their hands off the cranks. He finds the first one just below Fisher’s infirmary, tosses a canister of chokedust, and easily slips behind him with an arm around his windpipe. He drops the unconscious and hogtied Overseer in a dumpster to be collected later and takes his music box up somewhere high to hide. What he wants is to toss it off Fisher’s catwalk to let it smash on the cobblestones below, but that will have to wait until later. Maybe they can make an event of it? Outsider knows the kids would love it.

The sound of a second music box leads him down an alley where, under the monstrous din, he can hear voices.

“Give it up, these ones never talk. Just kill her and be done with it.”

“But Brother Hume ordered us not to kill any hostages? They’re supposed to be brought back for questioning--”

“And like I said, if she hasn’t said anything by now, she never will. It saves us the hassle of dragging her back to Holger.”

Three Overseers, one carrying a music box, are standing around a figure on their knees in the floodwater. He can already tell she’s too tall to be Quinn, even before he’s at an angle where he can see her face obscured by a flat sheet of bobbed black hair. Yuri. She’s been with him longer than Fisher, one of the few mercenaries who’ve actually stayed since he decided to protect Emily. If she had any inclination to lead, Daud would have made her a captain or even his second ages ago. How in the Void did they catch her?

Yuri doesn’t react at all to the discussion of her life until the Overseer directly in front of her nudges her with his boot, prompting her to lift her head just enough to let Daud see her split lip and swollen cheek.

“You hear that, heretic?” the Overseer sneers, plucking a grenade off his belt, casually tossing it up into the air and catching it again like it's a rubber ball. “We have no reason to keep you alive if you don’t talk.” Daud sees her expression harden as she clenches her jaw defiantly and decides he’s seen enough. A second later, one of Daud’s bolts is sticking out from the unprotected back of his skull.

The one with the music box is dead before he turns around completely. The third manages to catch a glimpse of Daud before a bolt cuts through his throat with a wet gurgle Daud is all too familiar with, almost accustomed to. He’s dead by the time Daud jumps down to untie Yuri.

“Boss,” she acknowledges, shoulders relaxing ever so slightly.

“Yuri,” he returns. “What in the Void happened?”

She frowns and rubs her wrists before answering. The Overseers took her gloves; they must have been told about the pins, of course they have, fucking…

“One of them saw someone around Fisher’s,” she says. “I led them away.”

“That was risky.”

She scoffs and turns her dark eyes on Daud. “Fisher’s got a bunch of kids, some injured masters, a pistol, and a box of grenades. Not exactly a fighting force, and I wasn’t about to let them,” she pauses to kick the corpse of the one who’d been playing with the grenade, “get any ideas. Didn’t expect anyone to come after me, either. Thank you.”

He brushes her thanks off with a shrug, fairly certain she won’t bring up the fact that this is the first time he’s killed anyone since the Tower, even though they both know that’s what she’s thanking him for, for putting her survival above the lives of enemies. “It’s nothing. Are you hurt?”

“Not too badly. Stupid pricks got all weird about it when they saw I was a woman.” 

“I’ll take it.” Better that than most of the alternatives Daud’s mind can conjure up. “We’re regrouping at Fisher’s.”

“I’ll send anyone I see that way.”

“You do that.”

Yuri nods and transverses out of sight. Daud just hopes she goes directly there and doesn’t try to be a hero again.

* * *

The third music box isn’t far from the Chamber of Commerce; the Overseer carrying it is pacing on one of the makeshift walkways the Whalers have set up all throughout Rudshore, not playing it. Daud almost goes right by him at first, his focus all on one he can hear just a little ways ahead. There are other Overseers nearby, too, but not close enough for Daud to handle them all easily. Maybe he can distract them for a while?

The one with the music box pauses below an empty apartment. It’s easy enough to transverse over, use Pull on the pins of the grenades at his belt, and transverse away while counting down the five seconds until--

_ BOOM! _

Daud only pauses to make sure that the explosion destroyed the music box as well and that the other patrolling Overseers stop what they’re doing to go find the pieces of their comrade. He accidentally catches sight of the massive statue of Jessamine Kaldwin and quickly has to look away from her stern, sightless stare. There will be all the time in the world to feel guilty later, Daud reminds himself, but he needs to make sure his men are safe.

He still swears he feels her eyes on his back as he goes after the music box he’d originally been tracking.

This one is definitely being played. It’s carried by one of two Overseers standing beneath the dilapidated awning of an abandoned storefront. The one without the box kicks forward furiously and Daud can see a shock of red hair as the Whaler he kicked doubles over. Tynan.

“Y'know,” Tynan wheezes, “I don't mind a bit a’ pain, but you've  _ gotta _ let me have some  _ foreplay _ first.”

The Overseer snarls and Daud swears he can almost hear him grinding his teeth as he tries to sneak above them. “This isn’t one of your depraved games.”

Tynan’s trying to appear at ease, but it’s made difficult when just breathing hurts, if the way he winces every time is any indication. He grins through bloody teeth and Daud can see one of his eyes is swollen almost shut already. “Aww, you’re not havin’ fun? Fuck!” He tries and fails to duck his head out of the way when the Overseer brings a billy club down against the side of his head. Daud narrows his eyes. When did they start carrying those?   


“Silence, heretic!”

“Easy, Brother Julius,” the Overseer with the music box urges. He sounds more senior. “Do not let him manipulate you.”

“Yeah, Julius,” Tynan must be thrilled to have a name to work with now, “you’ve gotta keep your cool. ‘Sides, can’t give you anythin’ if I’m quiet, can I? Rookie mistake, really, what you should--” Overseer Julius strikes him with the club again and Tynan grunts as he pauses to spit out a glob of blood. “A- _ gain _ with the hittin’?!”

_ “Where _ is  _ Daud?!” _

“Y’know, I’m feelin’ a little insulted. If you’re gonna talk about another guy, at least have the decency t’ wait until after the scene!”

“Unless you’re going to tell me what I want to know, be  _ QUIET!” _

“I don’t even know anythin’ about you, Jules.”  _ Smack. _ “Like, where’re you from?”  _ Smack. _ “What’s your favorite color? I be--”  _ SMACK. _ “--I bet it’s orange, you seem like the kind of guy who’d like orange--”

“Do you ever shut  _ up?!” _

“Only when I’ve got somethin’ t’ keep my mouth busy, but somethin’ tells me you ain’t exactly got the right  _ equipment _ \--”

“That is  _ it!” _ Julius snarls and pulls out his pistol, cocking it with the barrel pressed against Tynan’s head. He’s so focused on him that he doesn’t seem to notice his comrade isn’t working the music box anymore; the only indication he gets that something might be wrong is Daud’s sword through his lungs.

“Heya, Boss,” Tynan wheezes as Daud shoves the Overseer’s body away from him and onto the ground. “You coulda waited a bit, had ‘im right where I wanted ‘im.”

“I’m sure.” Daud steps forward to release Tynan’s hands. “Can you stand?”

“Prob’ly. Don’t worry ‘bout me, ‘m fine.”

“Pavel practically had to hold Akila down to get her to let Fisher treat her leg,” Daud informs him, and Tynan’s shoulders relax immediately.

“Oh good, they made it,” he exhales hard despite how much it must hurt. “I saw ‘em go down, and I couldn’t  _ not _ do somethin’, y’know?”

“I know.” Daud grabs him by his upper arm and helps pull him to his feet. “You’re all right.”

Tynan nods breathlessly, the effort of standing taking all his concentration.

“Can you get to Fisher’s on your own?”

“Think so. Might need to stop a bit…”

“I can summon someone to help you.”

Tynan shakes his head and waves him off. “Don’t bother, ‘m not worth all that.” He looks up at Daud, suddenly serious. “I heard some talkin’ ‘bout the princess, you’d better make sure she’s safe. She’s not at Fisher’s, is she?” When Daud shakes his head, he grits his teeth. “Fuck…”

“I’ll find her, Quinn’s missing, too.” The girls are as close as Quinn and Galia have ever been, Daud’s fairly certain that wherever one is, the other won’t be far. He just hopes that they’re somewhere safe. “You get to Fisher’s before you puncture a lung.”

“‘S jus’ a crack,” he mutters, but obeys without further argument and transverses away.

* * *

Just  _ who  _ the  _ fuck _ takes the extra time during an invasion to hang up Void-damned  _ curtains? _

Daud’s perched up next to the hole in the roof of his office (they’re using  _ his _ office as their temporary headquarters, of all the audacity…), watching as the Overseers’ leader paces back and forth shouting orders at underlings.

“Sir, we’ve captured a few of the heretics--”

“Good.”

“--but two aren’t talking and the one who will is almost worse.”

Hume growls and drags a gloved hand down his face. “Have them brought to me. Where are we on the princess’ whereabouts?”

Daud can see an annotated map of the Flooded District spread out on one of his desks. He’d like to grab it if he can, but that could probably be done by anyone. He just needs to focus on handling the one who’s patrolling with a music box nearby. Everything, and everyone else in this room, can probably wait until the Whalers are able to launch a counterattack. But he may as listen while he waits for an opening.

It sounds like there’s still one more Whaler he needs to find, and he’s hoping something Hume says will give him an idea of where to look for them. They’re after Emily, too, shit.  _ Why _ are they after Emily? Martin didn’t send them, did he? They haven’t been keeping too sharp an eye on Holger in the past few days, but surely he wouldn’t have sent such a piss-poor detachment? Martin’s given every indication that he’s much smarter than that. Is this something left over from Campbell, then? No, the Whalers should have caught wind of this if that was the case, not get blindsided. Daud exhales out his nose and sets his jaw, frustrated by how nothing seems to be making sense.

The Overseer that Hume is speaking to shifts, uncomfortable. “No progress yet, sir,” he says. “She’s not where you said she’d be.”

Hume snorts. “Of course not… Wasn’t one of the heretics we captured found in the training room?”

“Yes, sir. She’s one of the ones who isn’t talking.”

She? Oh no.

“See that she’s brought here, but make sure someone is still stationed there. The princess may be hiding nearby.”

“Sir.”

The Overseer nods and turns to leave Daud’s office just as the one with the music box steps up onto the landing that is Daud’s personal living space. There isn’t much time to be subtle, Daud just grabs him, sticks a bolt into his jugular, and throws both the body and music box out the window before someone on the main level notices the music has stopped playing. He has to go after the one before the Whaler in the training room is moved.

He catches up with the Overseer playing messenger just down the hall. No one else is around, so it’s safe to transverse behind him, choke him out, then stuff him under one of the large desks clogging the hall. With the chair in front of it, Daud doubts anyone will see him, and if they do, it doesn’t matter. He’s ordering the counterattack as soon as this last of his men is safe.

The cold, empty feeling creeping into his gut tells him he knows exactly who the Overseers have, even as he pushes it down to focus on the task at hand. Panic and worry won't help anyone. He could still be wrong, it could be any number of--

There are three Overseers circled around a small body on the floor of the training room. Not small enough to be Emily, but…

“We can keep this up for as long as it takes, girl,” one of the Overseers sighs. He has his arms crossed and one foot forward like he's perching it on something low to the ground. He presses down and a voice that is unmistakably Quinn's cries out briefly before she's able to cut herself off. “It doesn't matter to me whether or not you walk again.”

“I keep telling you assholes I don't know where she is!” Quinn hisses, voice strained with how much she's trying to not sound pained. 

One of the Overseers has a music box and he's turning the handle at a speed that’s making Daud nauseous, he can't imagine what it's doing to Quinn. He can't quite see what they're doing to her, but just listening is enough for him to shoot a bolt at the back of the head of the one who’s carrying the box without preamble. The second the music stops, Daud transverses into the room, on top of one of the bookcases. He jumps, feet landing on one Overseer’s chest as he drives his sword through it. The other staggers back, reaching for his pistol, only to lose his hand as Daud pulls his sword free from the dead Overseer’s chest. Before he can scream, Daud stabs him, too.

“Daud…” Quinn’s whole body relaxes as Daud turns toward her. She’s lying on her side with her hands bound behind her, and the only injury Daud can see is a swelling on her cheek that may not even bruise. “Thank the Outsider…”

“Are you all right?” Daud kneels to cut the ropes off her hands, helping her to sit up.

She nods, but gasps when she tries to fold her legs up under her. “My… I think they tore something in my knee,” she says, gesturing to her right leg. When Daud gently touches it, she gasps in pain. It’s swollen up to almost twice its usual size.

“What happened?”

“They were looking for Emily,” she says, trying to focus on inhaling and exhaling, “and I couldn’t… I couldn’t leave her, but I knew that if I took her and ran they’d catch us with those boxes and we’d both be killed, I thought--”

“Where is she?” Daud tries to keep the snap out of his voice, but isn’t entirely successful. She can’t be hurt, not after he swore to her father that she was safe with him…

The soft creak of a door opening pulls his gaze up to the other side of the room. There’s a cabinet stacked on top of a bookshelf, high enough that any child Emily’s size would probably have to stand on Quinn’s shoulders to reach it, and its door opens just enough for Daud to realize someone’s inside it.

“Em, it’s safe,” Quinn calls, still trying hold her right leg some way that doesn’t hurt.

Emily throws open the cabinet and wriggles out to climb down as fast as she can. Daud barely has time to register his horror at her having been in the room while her friend was interrogated, or at how he’s just  _ killed _ three men in front of her, before the princess is running full-tilt across the room and tackles him in a hug.

“Thank you,” she murmurs against his shoulder, tightening her arms around his neck just enough to reassure herself that he’s there and that he’s real. “Thank you. Thank you.” She’s shaking and it takes Daud all together too long to put together that she’s crying.

“It’s all right,” he says, wrapping his arms loosely around her in a hug despite everything that’s telling him he shouldn’t, because like it or not he was  _ worried _ about her, not just about Quinn or about how Attano would most certainly kill him if anything ever happened to the princess, but about  _ Emily, _ the little girl with dark hair and eyes to match, who likes crayons and stories about pirates and Pandyssia, and who absolutely hates when Fisher has to sit her down to go over a history lesson.

When did she become one of his kids?

“It’s all right,” he repeats. “You’re safe. It’s over.”

She holds onto him for a little longer, nodding into his shoulder, before letting go and turning towards Quinn. “I’m so sorry,” she says, looking like she desperately wants to hug Quinn, too, but is afraid of hurting her. “I… They were looking for me, I should’ve--”

“Shh,” Quinn reaches out and pulls Emily in for a tight hug. “It’s not your fault. You did great, you hid just like I told you to.”

“But they hurt you!”

“I’ll be okay, I promise. Fisher will fix me right up, you’ll see.” She gently rubs her hand over Emily’s back the way he’s seen Galia do with her. “Everything will be fine.”

While Emily nods and cries into Quinn’s coat, Daud takes the opportunity to move the dead Overseers off to a corner and cover them over with a tarp. He can’t change what she’s seen already, he only hopes that she shut her eyes and didn’t see him kill someone else so similarly to how he killed her mother six months ago, but he can make sure she doesn’t see any more.

* * *

The rest of the attack is taken care of in relatively short order. Daud summons Rinaldo to help Quinn back to Fisher’s while he lets Emily climb onto his back. They give her the choice, but she still asks if Daud can carry her, cautiously like she’s worried he’ll say no. Maybe he should, but he can’t deny that knowing she’s safe without having to look puts something in his chest at ease. Galia’s on them as soon as they arrive at Fisher’s, looking absolutely sick with worry and torn between holding Quinn or Emily when it becomes clear she can’t do both at once. She lets Rinaldo and Thomas take the girls to a bed at the back of the infirmary for Fisher to fuss over and tend to while she grabs Daud’s forearm.

“Where are they?” she asks sharply, voice too low for Quinn to catch her speaking, her tone murderous and her implication plain. “You didn’t let them get away, did you?”

“Don’t worry,” Daud gently removes her hand, “I took care of them.”

Galia hesitates a second before nodding and relaxing a bit, evidently accepting his answer.

Daud takes the uninjured Whalers and leads them against the remaining Overseers, capturing those they can now that the threat of the music boxes is dealt with. Enough have realized that nearly half of their comrades are missing to put up something that’s a little more than a token resistance, but it’s nothing Daud’s men can’t handle. They find the pockets of people hiding, tell them it’s safe to come out, and soon it’s clear between headcounts and the Arcane Bond that they miraculously haven’t lost anyone. Not everyone is home, and a handful of scouts are sent out to recall those they can find, but that’s nothing. They have been attacked, and some of their number have been hurt, but they’ve all  _ survived. _ It’s more than Daud had allowed himself to hope for.

Nearly everyone crams themselves into Fisher’s infirmary afterwards, without permission from the man himself, but he doesn’t seem to mind too much. The Whalers are good at clearing a path for him when he needs it, and a few times he uses the group to pass him supplies from the other side of the room. It’s just as well, because the vast majority seem to have no intention of leaving even though the danger’s passed.

It’s more by luck than anything else that Daud is standing by the bay doors when Billie finally appears.

“Daud--”

“Where have you been?” he cuts her off, but is nowhere near as stern as he could or probably should be. By what he can gather, Quinn and Emily were the last ones to see her about fifteen minutes before the attack. The Whalers are supposed to be able to count on her as much as on him, what happened?

She doesn’t answer immediately. Her mask is off, and Daud can see in her face as she tries to scramble for a response, only to give up and instead look past him into the infirmary. “Is everyone okay?”

Daud crosses his arms, concerned. “Mostly. There’re a few people Fisher’s concerned about, but it doesn’t look like anything is life-threatening.”

Billie nods mechanically. She looks around the room until her gaze settles on Quinn where she’s being examined by Fisher with an anxious Galia and Emily by her side. Daud almost doesn’t catch her murmured, “It’s my fault…”

“No it isn’t.” If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s Daud’s, for making the decision to protect Emily, for not enforcing strict enough scouting patrols, for agreeing to work with Burrows in the first place. They’ve been expecting this, thought they prepared, and still--

“You don’t understand.” Billie shakes her head firmly, looking like she wants to reach out for Daud like she hasn’t allowed herself to do in years. Instead, she folds her arms with her hands holding her elbows. “It… It was me.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I sent the sentries away,” she gets quieter as their exchange starts to draw attention from the closest beds, then the next closest after that in a ripple effect that quickly swallows all the sound in the room until Billie’s is the only voice, “I disarmed some of the traps, I… I led led Delilah here. And she brought the Abbey.”

Something cold claws its way into Daud’s stomach like a stone. “You did this.” He doesn’t want to believe it. This is  _ Billie, _ for Void’s sakes.  _ His _ Billie.

Billie won’t meet his gaze, even as she nods. “She caught me, the day I told you about Rothwild. She said the only way I could keep everyone safe was to let her have what she wanted, but then she brought in  _ Overseers, _ and I wanted to tell you, I did, but it was too late. Everything was already in place, I just had to do my part and make sure everyone was gone so they wouldn’t get hurt, but--”

“What was ‘your part?’” Daud manages to keep his voice even, but can’t keep the edge of hurt and anger from it. He’s aware of the room behind him shifting as more than one Whaler starts slowly reaching for weapons he hopes won’t be used.

She hesitates before she nods at the back corner of the infirmary and at Emily. “Her. Delilah wants her. I was supposed to make sure she was somewhere the Overseers could find.”

“You  _ bitch,” _ Galia hisses and transverses across the room, only to be caught and held back by Thomas. “You set my sister up to be  _ tortured!” _

“Quinn wasn’t supposed to be there!” Billie looks between the Fleet sisters. “She… You were supposed to leave her and go to the Estate District… No one was supposed to get hurt--”

“So much for  _ that!” _ spits Galia, still struggling against Thomas. “You  _ betrayed _ us!”

“No I didn’t!” Billie points to Emily around Daud where he’s standing to block his lieutenant’s path. “Everyone in the city is after her! She’s going to bring the Whalers nothing but ruin, I was trying to  _ save us!  _ Someone was going to come after her eventually, whether it was Burrows or the Abbey or Delilah...they would have cut their way through Rudshore until they found her! The only way I could protect everyone was to hand her over!”

“And you failed to do even that,” drawls a cold, disinterested voice from the open bay doors behind Billie who stiffens, but doesn’t turn to look. Daud sees the flesh-and-blood version of the statue that spoke to him in Timsh’s manor. “Stupid girl. All you had to do was leave a child alone in a room.”

“Delilah,” he growls.

The witch gestures broadly, holding her arms out as though she’s presenting herself as the guest of honor at some imperial banquet. “Daud. I warned you to stay out of my way,” she says, sauntering forward.

Daud’s hand goes to his sword in a promise of violence should she step any closer. “And I told you to leave Emily Kaldwin alone.”

Delilah sniffs, unaffected. “Come now. You must see that this can only end badly for you and your people. But I’m feeling magnanimous, so I’ll give you one last chance to avoid the disaster coming for you all; hand over the princess, right now, and you’ll never hear from me again.”

Everyone reacts at once. Daud draws his sword with a snarl. Galia jerks hard enough to nearly escape Thomas’ grasp with a furious hiss of, “Over my dead body!” The Whalers standing closest to Quinn’s bedside and to Emily close ranks, forming a barrier around her even as Fisher firmly directs her to stay behind him and draws his pistol from his belt. Everyone else stands if they’re able, reaching for swords and knives, aiming wristbows, and preparing to draw on the Void. No one appears to give Delilah’s offer a second thought.

If the display shakes her, Delilah doesn’t show it. Her eyes dart around the room, looking for an opening or weakness, and her mouth curls into a silent snarl when she doesn’t find one. “So that’s your choice?”

“Daud,” Billie murmurs, finally looking up at him. “Please, just do what she wants.”

When no one backs down, Delilah scoffs and continues. “Very well. Know this, Daud: one way or another, the Brigmore Witches will be your end, and the end of everyone you hold dear. You should have forgotten my name the day you heard it!”

The Outsider’s warning from six months ago floats to the top of his mind along with a wave of fear that Daud represses. No, he’ll finish this before his Whalers can come to harm. He may not have been able to protect them today, but he won’t let any of this happen again.

“Forces better than you have tried,” he challenges. The two of them stare each other down until Delilah frowns and disappears in a transversal of green smoke.

The room is silent for a long moment until Billie speaks. “I’m sorry.” Slowly, she draws her sword, ignoring the way her former fellows, her former  _ family, _ all tense at the motion. Instead of trying to drive it into Daud, however, she holds it out to him and forces herself to look up. “I shouldn’t… I just wanted to protect everyone, but I failed and for that, I’m sorry.” She hesitates, then kneels in front of Daud, still holding her sword out with the blade flat against her palms. “My life is yours. Do what you will.”

When Daud met her, all Billie wanted was a purpose, somewhere to belong. He tried to give her both, made her into the best assassin he’s ever trained, brought her into the patchwork family that the Whalers have slowly become. Out of everyone, she’s the one he’s been closest to, the one who’s been the most like his own child.

As angry as he is, he can’t help but try to understand the choice she made.

“I forgive you,” he says. Billie looks up, and for a second she’s the skinny little girl who managed to tail Daud home, begging for something to make her life worth living, all over again. It’s too much, so he turns his back to her. “Go. I give you your life, Billie. Don’t let me see you again.”

He can feel her eyes on his back, pleading, but he doesn’t falter. He hears her get to her feet, slide her sword back onto her belt, and transverse away. For good.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...if it makes it any better this means I now have to focus on Daud and Corvo? Yay???
> 
> If you would like to scream at me for whatever reason, [I have a tumblr.](https://donotfeedthewildauthor.tumblr.com/)


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